Linda's El Salvador Blog

Tales of Greasy and Grubby: Honey and Bling

2012-01-22T16:53:00.000-06:00

It has been a little while since I shared a story about Greasy and Grubby. If you are a frequent reader of my stories, you know Greasy now lives far away from Grubby, and the two made a recent visit to El Salvador together. Greasy has a new sister church in Peru, and Grubby (that would be me) continues to be in a close relationship with her sister church community and the people of El Salvador. Although Greasy's new church experiences carry her to another place, a piece of Greasy's heart will always be in El Salvador. And although Greasy and Grubby tried on new nicknames during their most recent adventure in El Salvador, the names did not really stick.

Our idea for the recent visit was to surprise our sister church community. The community would not expect the two of us to show up together -- it took a long while for them to accept that we no longer live on the same street (much less the same state), go to the same church or travel together. This would be a true surprise. Of course our sister pastor knew. Of course our beloved Julia, one of las tres amigas knew. We anticipated that others would find out through the grapevine or Facebook, but we hoped that most folks would rejoice in this great surprise.

We arrived very early in the morning and were bustled into Julia's house (our home in the community) for a nice long visit. People started to stop by -- Julia is in a great location for that. What fun it was to watch people's faces as they noticed us sitting under the cherry tree, especially the kids who screamed with delight and ran to the gate.

We know the community well, so ventured out to walk the pathways, pausing for conversation in the shade here and there and experiencing invitations and hospitality at every turn. We visited the "mom with 8 kids." Although we now know the names of the women in the community, back in the beginning of our relationship we came up with nicknames to help us remember who was who. Now I use the nicknames when I am writing so that identities can be protected. The first time we visited the "mom with 8 kids," we caught her off-guard. She was so apologetic for the laundry and folded clothing which was piled on every surface in her tiny house. She said, "with me and my husband and 8 kids, there is just no place to put it" and we had a good laugh about it as we nestled ourselves in and had a long chat amidst the piles of laundry. This friend is the happiest mother we have ever met, disciplining her children with love, a little shake of the finger and a frown that turns quickly back into a smile, and treating her children as true treasures from God. Her baby is a miracle, a ninth child arriving late in life 9 months after her firstborn was murdered. During our recent visit, the baby slept while we sat and chatted. Our friend told us that she was learning how to make jewelry, and she gave us each a beaded necklace and some seed earrings -- a bit of bling which highly entertained the baby who woke up to join us.

A young mom and her cousin, godchildren to our families, learned how to make tuti-fruti that day as a fresh treat for us. The woman of the house, younger than both of us, has struggled to support her family by traveling to Honduras to purchase fruit and then cut it up to sell in the market. She has always been so proud and excited to serve us tuti-fruti at her home, and we remembered together the first time she introduced us to tuti-fruti (watermelon, pineapple, strawberries and bananas cut up small and drizzled with honey) in 2001 after her children were baptized. She is tired and not quite lucid. She is receiving chemo-therapy for brain cancer.

We had many visits, and many surprise conversations in the pathways on our walks, and then...there were two surprise parties at the church. Our coming had definitely not remained a secret. The family commission (divided into four women's Bible study groups) teamed up: two groups for an event on Saturday and two groups for an event on Sunday. These were beautiful parties. A welcome sign with our names was up on the wall. The first party featured a devotion time and a really yummy Salvadoran treat that I cannot remember the name of but is sort of like a buñuelo soaked in honey, served with a sweet milky drink seasoned with whole cloves (in a traditional morro cup). The women worked very hard all day to make these special treats. After we finished the delicious refreshments, we received the gift of a song. The two of us sat in our white plastic chairs, as the women and a few of their children sang to us about brothers and sisters being and working together. Of course we were teary-eyed because to receive a gift such as this really is to experience the love of Christ. With sticky honey on our fingers and our lips, we hugged and kissed and wished each other a good-night.

The second party was held after church on Sunday. Many of the women had attended workshops to learn to make beaded jewelry with pearls and sparkles and colorful beads and natural seeds. We were bedecked and bedazzled with necklaces and bracelets and earrings and small purses. Since Grubby is short, she was the first to be decorated, and being the comedian she is, did a little model-walk and twirl which elicited clapping and cheers. Greasy is quite tall, so it took a bit of stretching and ducking which provided just enough of a delay so that when the crowd called for her to do a strut and twirl, it was captured by a pastor with a quick grab of Grubby's camera. Sadly, Grubby promised Greasy never to publish these photos. The truth is that no matter how much bling you dangle onto us on a really hot day, we retain our true identities as Greasy and Grubby. After the fashion show, the women presented Greasy with a very special gift - a lacquered map of El Salvador with a traditional scene on the front, and a hand-written message on the back: For our dear friend...on behalf of Sector No. 1 with much caring and love, hoping that you will always remember all of your friends. Each name of the Sector 1 Bible Study group was inscribed below the message. Another gift of love, and a few more tears. Then, the two of us were invited to a table which was filled with fruit. Each woman had brought fruit from her garden or the market - and it was quite a banquet! Everyone was able to share in the sweet goodness. We received gifts of fruit to carry with us. There were hugs and kisses because it was time to say good-bye.

The memories of the visits, the parties, the laughter, the tears, the sharing, the cooking, the eating, the singing, the worshiping, the hugs, the kisses and the love we share together are strong and sweet, like honey for our spirits. And yes, we wear our beautiful bling, and when we hear, "Ooh, I love your necklace. Oh what pretty earrings. Where did you get them?" we say, "they were a gift from our sisters in El Salvador" and we recollect how we were the ones who were surprised.

Stone Soup

2012-01-17T12:22:00.000-06:00

We packed stones in our suitcases.

OK, not real stones, but pieces of gray and brown paper, some new and some recycled, all suitable for making stones. We prepared our stones, cutting rounded and irregular shapes from the paper, pasting an invitation to the back of each stone, and marking a J, E, S, Ú or S on each front. Then, we went out walking.

We stopped at each home in our sister community, asking permission to enter, greeting one another, sharing a few stories and praying together. Then we asked, "Do you know the story of stone soup?"

We shared the story together, bringing out a paper stone at each home. The invitation was to join us in making stone soup.

On Saturday, the invitation called for a pilgrimage to the river. The tradition of celebrating baptism, first communion and confirmation together was strong, and the act of making a pilgrimage to a special location was a way in which to include all who wished to participate, even those who felt a little shy about entering the Lutheran Church. Because the river was dry and the weather was extremely hot, a few of the young men in the community had built a little champita - a roof of palm branches held up by bamboo poles to provide a bit of shade over the altar. We sang. We prayed. We shared the sacraments and celebrated with the adults, teens and little ones who were named as children of God and with the teenage boy who experienced Holy Communion for the first time. Then each person was invited to bring his or her gift to the altar - a fruit, some grass, flowers, a bit of ribbon, whatever he or she wished to give. The gifts were simple and abundant -- I held out my skirt as people placed their gifts into it like a basket. This was the gathering of the ingredients for the stone soup.

Saturday night we made a loom from some branches and yarn. On Sunday morning, the Sunday School children gathered for their lesson. As the loom was brought forth, the children wove and tied all the gifts to it, occasionally running outside to gather more leaves and pieces of grass and working together until they had created a beautiful piece of art. This was the mixing of the stone soup.

In the afternoon, families came to the community center for worship and a shared meal. People brought their stones, taping them to the wall...spelling out JESÚS. Youth read the scriptures. Guitar and recorder players and singers made music. It was a grand celebration of the coming together as the body of Christ, each sharing his or her unique gift for the benefit of all. This was the eating of the stone soup.

The paper stones have long since fallen from the wall, the leaves and flowers from the artistic weaving have long since dried up, but in a special spot in my house I have a simple tecomate, decorated with a blue ribbon and tiny red roses, a lasting taste of the stone soup and a reminder that God creates miracles and beauty when we are together.

Play Ball!

2012-01-06T13:06:00.000-06:00

Every now and then, the women and girls in our sister community play softball. It seems to be one of those things that comes and goes, maybe depending on the availability of equipment or leaders or space on the soccer field or safety. There are a couple of older women in the community who are all out softball stars, who hit with great power, run fast -- who play and cheer with great exuberance. These dynamo player-coaches periodically rise up and organize the girls into one or two community teams.

My all-time favorite girls softball experience in El Salvador took place a few years back. Our sister community girls were in a tournament with a neighboring community. The girls met at the soccer field to practice before the game. Our goddaughter, about 7 months pregnant and wearing flip flops, grabbed hold of the bat and started hitting the ball out into the field. I still chuckle at the memory of watching her hit those balls. I also chuckle at the memory of the catcher, crouching down behind home with her Mary-Jane school shoes and too-small soccer shin guards for protection.

The girls practiced a bit, but then found out the game had to be moved from the original field location (the prime field strewn with sporadic patches of grass and cows munching along the perimeter) to a dirt field at the edge of town. This secondary field was situated at the edge of a steep drop into a ravine, so that a ball hit over the fence would bring cheers for a home run, followed by a climb over the fence, a precarious trudge through some garbage and a serious delay of game.

The girls gathered for a review of the rules and determination of where the bases would be. Our goddaughter was the ump, and while I chuckle at the memory of her at-bats, I marvel at her saucy no-nonsense attitude while setting the rules and governing play. The game was played, with loud calls of "bola" and "estraaaaayyyyk" and "hom run!" The two teams were pretty evenly matched, and they played until the rain ended the game. I don't even recall who won - for as serious as those girls were, in the end it was a tournament for fun.

The Cathedral Loses More than a Facade

2011-12-31T11:54:00.000-06:00

Today I learned that the facade of the Metropolitan Cathedral in San Salvador has been destroyed, not by an earthquake or the winds of a hurricane, but by the hands of workers at the direction of church leaders. The images of the colorful tiles crashing to the pavement, the chiseled shards being gathered into white buckets and irreverently being tossed into a dumpster are painful to see.

I don't want to question the right of the Catholic Church to pull down something old to make way for something new - new wineskins for new wine are sometimes needed. As a non-Salvadoran, I don't want to impose my outsider opinion on a Salvadoran decision. But in my heart I do question the wisdom in carrying out such a violent act on a mural depicting peaceful images of the Salvadoran people, and I do wonder what the motivation was for such a decision.

Like any artist, Fernando Llort, the creator of the facade, has his fans and his critics. I am personally a fan. He and his family have been very gracious during our visits to their workshops, taking the time to work with Salvadoran friends and artisans who wished to learn more about Llort's artistic style and technique. His web site has a lovely story which describes the impact of his experience in creating the work of art which framed the entrance to the Cathedral. I can't imagine how sad and confused and offended Mr. Llort must feel as he witnesses the great disrespect which has been shown to one of his life works.

The most recent photo I have of the Cathedral was taken in September 2011. I was there with a Salvadoran friend who had not yet seen the completed facade. His last visit had been during the time when the facade was still covered with scaffolding, and the artisans were putting the tiles into place. He was so thrilled to see the completed images, colorful and peaceful, surrounding the statue of Jesus. The plaza in which we stood held for our friend past experiences of fear and violence and death. On that recent September day, with the sun shining in the bright blue sky, with the green trees shifting slightly in the breeze, with the older men relaxing on park benches and women selling aromatic fried foods and fruit, the mirrored images of colorful Salvadoran life stood as a backdrop to peaceful moments. It was a profound experience for my friend, and one that Salvadorans and visitors to El Salvador will miss.

My friend Tim has also written about the destruction of the cathedral's facade on his Blog.

The Christmas Corner

2011-12-24T10:37:00.000-06:00

I entered the house. It was dark inside, so it took a moment for my eyes to adjust after being outside in the bright sunshine. "Just a minute," Julia said. She reached into the corner and dragged a raggedy extension cord over to the socket and plugged it in.

Two little plastic Christmas trees came to life!

The trees framed the corner of the room which held a leveled pile of sand and a multitude of small treasures. Each item was carefully placed to face the corner, and in the corner there was a well-loved ceramic Baby Jesus. Julia had spent a long time assembling her Christmas corner.

"These are my son's baby shoes. We brought this pine cone back from a trip to the mountains. My boys played with these cars when they were little. I have had this figure since I was a little girl." Julia carefully picked up treasure after treasure, grateful for the memory it brought to mind, joyful to share the memory and her stories with a friend.

Donkeys and horses made from clay. Cats and cows and crocodiles made of plastic. Mary, Joseph, Shepherds and Kings of all shapes and sizes. All positioned carefully in the sand, all with faces toward the corner adoring Baby Jesus, all surrounded by lights and sparkles.

Every year, I assemble a Christmas corner to honor the birth of Jesus and the gift of Julia's friendship. I try to remember Julia's stories, and the stories that accompany the few Salvadoran treasures I place beneath the tree. The cup from Julia's cupboard, made by her grandpa. The stuffed pig from Christina. The angel from our sister community's anniversary party. The church made by Papa Santiago. A photo from the first time we said good-bye. It's a lesson in humility. Julia's life treasures fit under two small trees and mine do not, but the love and friendship we share is bigger than any corner or any house can hold. Merry Christmas, Julia!

Tamale Time!

2011-12-20T00:38:00.000-06:00

Christmas Eve festivities happen at our house. We go to church in the later afternoon and then come home for a quiet evening of snacking, talking, Christmas music, playing games and opening a few gifts. The family members who do not have other celebrations to attend come to our house, so the guests vary from year to year and so does the food. This year, I have decided to go with a Salvadoran theme.

There are a few Salvadoran dishes which I make pretty often, and they turn out pretty well: guacamole with big chunks of avocado and hard-boiled eggs, cauliflower relleno with tomato salsita, ejotes (green beans) cut fine and made with scrambled egg, and of course, Salvadoran red beans...but there is one must-have for Christmas which I have not yet attempted -- tamales.

If my kids are reading this, they are probably groaning and saying "yuck." It's true, their experiences with tamales in El Salvador have included a few unwelcome bites into chicken beaks, chicken feet and other unknown crunchy things, and the gooey mass of corn dough has not always been cooked to the finest texture. Yet, every Christmas and major celebration of which I have been a part in El Salvador has included tamales. Savory tamales filled with potato and carrot. Sweet tamales slathered in fresh cream. I am determined to try to make a tasty tamale.

So, today I got out my Salvadoran cook book, a gift from my husband a few years back. The tamale section has about a dozen recipes, some of which require some ingredient research and all of which contain meat. With a vegetarian on the guest list, I needed to turn elsewhere for ideas.

As I was about to hit Google for answers, I remembered the video. About 4 years ago, my friend Julia took me to one of the best tamale-maker's house to show me how to make tamales. I filmed the entire process, from pulling the corn off the cob, to grinding, to mixing, to starting the fire, to wrapping, to cooking. Who needs a cookbook when you have a step-by-step film featuring your friends and non-stop humorous commentary?

Tomorrow, I will find that video and experiment with tamale-making, because it just won't be a Salvadoran Christmas without the tamales!

The Advent Bracelet

2011-12-15T08:19:00.003-06:00

I am still wearing two slightly battered, mis-matched bracelets. The tightly-knotted turquoise, orange and white one has survived on my wrist for an amazingly long time. I did take it off for my son's wedding, which technically broke my wear it til it breaks rule. For a long time, the tri-colored yarn was accompanied by 3 stretchy elastic bands strung with teeny tiny beads. These beaded bracelets are often traded among teen boys and girls in our sister church community and after a while they break, scattering beads across the dirt or across the floor. Some have survived long enough to return to El Salvador for a visit or two.

The second bracelet on my wrist is a purple, stretchy rubber-band bracelet which springs into the shape of a clothes hanger when I take it off. It was obtained in a trade - tiny pink beads for a purple hanger. I have to confess: the hanger was also removed for the wedding.

This morning I pulled out the big plastic box which holds gift bags, tissue paper, tags and ribbons. Time to wrap the Christmas gifts! As I was digging around among the glittery snowman bags and recycled tissue I found a bracelet. What a surprise! I had not thought about this blue and white, ribbon-wrapped bangle for months! I pushed it onto my wrist, resting the image of the Salvadoran flag beside the turquoise yarn and the purple hanger, and I thought about when it was that I had received the bangle...

Almost 11 months ago, Bishop Gomez gave me the lost El Salvador bracelet. I wore it every day for quite some time and now I wondered, how did it end up in the gift-wrapping bin? Prior to a kid's birthday or our nephew's wedding or who knows what special event, the bracelet must have slipped off my wrist and nestled itself among the wrappings, waiting to surprise me on a gray and rainy Advent day.

Dios - Unión - Libertad -- (God - Union - Liberty) -- These words of guidance for a nation which I now carry with me on a bracelet, arrived unexpectedly during this time of Advent. As I catch a glimpse of the bracelet, I think about all of my friends in the Salvadoran Lutheran Church, who share God's love by building community and doing justice among the marginalized, the forgotten and the oppressed. As I bustle around the house, wrapping the gifts and baking the treats, this little blue and white Advent bracelet reminds me of God's purpose in sending Jesus...

Isaiah 61.1:

The spirit of the Lord God is upon me,
because the Lord has anointed me;
he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed,
to bind up the broken-hearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and release to the prisoners;

Off the Beaten Path: El Mozote, 30 Years Down the Road

2011-12-07T08:15:00.008-06:00

Thirty years ago, a terrible massacre was carried out by the Atlacatl Battalion of the Salvadoran armed forces in the small town of El Mozote. More than 1000 people were killed. This week, Tim's El Salvador Blog is dedicating its posts to sharing the story of this horrific event.

Three years ago I visited El Mozote. Tim was with me. A very dear friend from our sister church, who has a chauffeur's license, drove us there in a rented car. Although our friend had

heard of the massacre, he had not been to El Mozote and he knew very little about what actually happened there. He is a politically active, staunch FMLN supporter who knows a great deal about what happened during the war, so this surprised me a little.

We made the long drive from the capital, from highway, to small paved road, to rocky bumpy road, to dirt path. We paused along the way for lunch in a small town, enjoying a little time for rest and conversation before beginning a visit to a place which we knew would be very difficult to visit.

When we

arrived in El Mozote the first thing that struck me was the quiet. It is quiet. The homes which held life and families in 1981 are dead shells. Signs of the violence which occurred are all around. As we paused near the town square a young woman came to greet us. She is a survivor - a survivor only because she was not at home at the time of the massacre. Her mom had just had a baby, so she had been sent off to her aunt's house in a nearby town. The 1981 slaughter of the innocents, including her mom and her baby sister who she never knew, set the path for this young woman. She has dedicated her life to sharing the story.

As we walked through the town, our guide pointed out the

bomb craters, explained how the men were corralled into an open space, how the women and children were placed into the church. She described their deaths. Our friend asked a lot of questions. He marveled at the richness and beauty of this agricultural land. That juxtaposition of the beautiful and the ugly was difficult for all of us to experience.

Outside the church, a beautiful memorial garden stands as a sign of life and hope. A colorful mural on the side of the church honors the lost lives of the children. It's impossible to understand how the soldiers could have killed grandpas, dads, grandmas, moms, children and babies. The images in the mural -- the colors, the playfulness, and the joy, express what were the hopes for the earthly lives of these lost children, and the faith we have that these little ones are playing and running and laughing with joy in heaven.

At the end of our visit we stopped at the small tourist center which the women of El Mozote have set up near the town square. Our friend paged through a book of photographs, pondering all he had seen. He said, "We Salvadorans need to come here, to remember this. The children in our community need to know something about the history. They don't know anything."

We bought the book and gave it to our friend later as a gift so that he could share the lessons of this horrific event with others. On our drive back, we talked a little about our feelings. I remember one comment which our friend made about the condition of the road, "The government wants this road to be bad so no one will come here." We made a few additional stops, including a visit to the Museum of the Salvadoran Revolution and a park filled with happy families and fresh air.

Since the visit to El Mozote, the adults in our sister church community have shared a little bit more of their stories and the history of the war with their children. They have hosted a couple of movie nights, showing documentaries and films such as Voces Inocentes and discussing them with their children. There is healing in the telling, and lessons for the future.

O Christmas Tree

2011-12-03T18:53:00.004-06:00

When I was in 2nd grade, my Sunday School teacher took a Polaroid photo of me and each of my classmates as we stood in front of a church Christmas tree. We pasted those pictures onto cream-colored tag board stars, and then carefully pasted burnt matchsticks onto each of the star points. This little Linda star was a Christmas present for my mom and dad that year, and it was placed on the tree that year and for several years beyond.

When my kids were in preschool, each of them had the opportunity to make an ornament from an inverted flat-bottomed ice cream cone. A pipe cleaner was stuck through the bottom to make a hook, and the cone was covered with white icing. Colorful cereal pieces were stuck into the icing and the Christmas bell was ready to hang on the tree. Each sticky bell had it's one glorious year on the tree.

Whether it reappears year after year or adorns the tree only once, a home-made ornament is a beautiful and memorable gift.

The first time we were in El Salvador for Christmas, I was surprised to see Christmas trees. I guess I thought that the Tannenbaum was a German tradition, not really Salvadoran, and I had never seen Christmas pines in the Salvadoran forest or on tree farms. Well, the magic of the global economy had brought plastic trees to El Salvador and a few homes and many public places hosted Christmas trees. My favorite tree was decorated with homemade ornaments -- gold-painted tortillas and bright red ribbon. I like to think about the kids and moms making the tortillas, poking holes into them and letting them dry, painting them gold and stringing wire into them to hang them from the tree. The poinsettia flowers on the tree were not real, although red poinsettia flowers line the streets and pathways of rural El Salvador during December. A simple idea and a beautifully simple tree.

We've done a little Christmas caroling in El Salvador, singing together songs which we have in common. I came across a pretty good version of O Christmas Tree in Spanish from Ask.com.

Qué verdes son
(O Tannenbaum)
(Oh, Christmas Tree)

Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.
Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.
En Navidad qué hermoso está con su brillar de luces mil.
Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.

Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.
Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.
Sus ramas siempre airosas son, su aroma es encantador.
Qué verdes son, qué verdes son las hojas del abeto.

Just Click: What will we see next?

2011-11-28T15:42:00.007-06:00

Each time I head out into the streets of El Salvador I

see something

new...

check out these photos

from

my last visit...

Thanksgiving Dinner in July

2011-11-18T11:02:00.008-06:00

I was invited to dinner.

This was one of those times when I was on my own, living in our sister church community, hanging out with friends and spending a little quality time with a few families who have become extensions of our own family.

The invitation came from our goddaughter's mom. Over the years we have shared many visits in her home. The hospitality is always generous, even if there is not much food to offer. This is a family that struggles...struggles with a dad who is challenged by alcohol, struggles with a mom who is mentally unstable, struggles with severe poverty, struggles with teen-motherhood for our goddaughter, struggles with violence and real threats. At the time of the dinner invitation, the household consisted of mom, our goddaughter and her 3 year old son, and a younger teenage sister.

My friend, Julia, walked me down the hill and through the narrow short-cut to my goddaughter's house. I have done this walk alone many times, but the stress-level was heightened in the community that night because of the vigil. Late in the evening, a vigil would be held in another home just down the path from my dinner destination. On that same date one year earlier, on a sunny afternoon, two teen boys were shot and killed by gang members as they stood outside of a little store in the community. Julia said she would return after dinner, in time to pick me up for the vigil.

We rattled the gate - a big piece of corrugated tin which almost completely blocks the tiny yard from view. The fire was smoldering under a pot on the outdoor grill - a humble contraption made from a rusty part of an old oil drum. Young chickens with their first real feathers wandered about the yard, entertaining the little guy. Outside the house, three plastic chairs encircled a small round table which was set with a red-checked cloth. We sat at the table, chatting and laughing at the chickens and the dog.

We took some photos of each other. Mom was thrilled to have her picture taken in her Barcelona soccer jersey. A man walked by carrying his guitar on his back. I recognized him from a few years back when he and his buddies played music at our friend's surprise birthday party. He remembered me too, and paused on his way to the vigil to play and sing for us.

As the sun set, we shared dinner. I was presented with a whole chicken, and a big pile of rice set on a pretty plastic plate. "Look inside," the mom told me. Inside the chicken were a couple of whole egg yolks. This was a very special way to prepare the chicken for an honored guest. My goddaughter told me that they had killed one of their young chickens that day. They chose the biggest one. She was really proud of that.

Mom brought out a big pile of tortillas, and a scooped up a bowl of broth from the po

t over the fire for each of the girls. One chicken foot sat in the middle of each bowl. We gave thanks for the food and for one another.

Then we ate. After eating some of my chicken, I asked if the girls would like to share with me. They eagerly said yes, so we divided up the chicken and some rice into their bowls. Mom said she didn't want to eat. She would not sit down with us, but instead, stood by the fire with her arms crossed in front of her and smiling with great satisfaction of having served up her finest dinner. Half-way through the meal, she brought each of us a steaming mug of weak coffee.

Dinner ended, and it was time to go to the vigil. Julia came and picked me up, and we walked a little further down the hill to pray and sing with families in mourning. We hugged and hugged at the gate. To this day, we still remind one another of this night - of the love, the stories, the time and the special food we shared together.

Although I have photos of us together at the table, I am unable to post them out of concern for the safety of the family.

Inviting and Injustice

2011-11-07T10:02:00.003-06:00

We are frequently invited. Anyone who has the heart to travel can do so. We are invited for special events in the lives of the church and the people. We are invited to team up with leaders to work together in education, healthcare, public safety, employment opportunities.

We less frequently invite. This is not to say we don't wish to invite. We want our pastor, leaders and friends in El Salvador to participate in special events in the lives of the church and the people, and we want to team up with our friends to work together in ministry and in our home community.

Earlier this year we extended an invitation to our sister church pastor to visit us and to participate in several important events, including a big anniversary worship and pastor installation at church, and a family wedding. We thought about inviting other community leaders and church members from El Salvador, but we have never been able to get visa approval for anyone other than our sister church pastor, so we only invited him. His long-term visa had expired, so we helped him to assemble a very complete profile of his previous visits and his work in El Salvador. He was granted a renewal of his visa.

Then he waited. His passport with visa did not arrive, did not arrive. We made an inquiry at the US consulate (which cost us money) and were told that nothing could be done unless the passport had been delayed more than 30 days. We contacted friends in the embassy who learned that because our sister pastor has a common last name, the US was going to do a criminal check to make sure he had not committed crimes during his previous visits to the US. This could be a delay of "several months". Expedited process was requested.

In the meantime, the special events are passing by, and our sister pastor is not with us.

The visa process is frustrating. Good people with good intentions are invited by responsible citizens. Some visas are granted, and many are rejected. We continue to try to work with this process and talk with representatives about how to improve it.

Frustration over the visa process is one thing, yet once a visa is granted, it seems to me to be completely unjust to hold a foreign national's passport for up to several months, without communicating to that person that this is occurring, in order to conduct a criminal background check. I don't question the wisdom of conducting a criminal check (although, a pastor who presented a detailed account of every previous visit to the US seems an unlikely target for such a check), but I do question the "several month" time delay. In our sister pastor's case, he travels frequently outside of El Salvador, and the holding of his passport by the US for "several months" seems absolutely out of line.

We in the US are accustomed to flashing our US passport and quickly moving through visiting immigrant processes around the world. Some countries require us to have pre-positioned visas in our passports, which can take a week or two. This seems reasonable.

I want to ask anyone and everyone in our government who makes or implements our US visitor policies: How would you feel if another nation's government held your passport for 2 or 3 or 4 months while conducting a "check" on you? Would this be reasonable? Would this be just?

I do not believe we should continue to treat honorable visitors to our country as suspicious and potential criminals. I do not believe that we should intimidate visitors with lack of communication or by holding their passports. This is not right.

I do believe that I should be able to invite a beloved pastor and friends to a milestone event at my church or to my son's wedding.

A Rain Story III

2011-10-31T14:37:00.005-05:00

It's hard to describe the sound and the force of a tropical rain shower, but I found this little video clip which I recorded one morning during a surprise storm. Here are some things I have been told when hiding from the rain...

"You can't go out there! You'll slip and break a bone!"

"Don't get wet in the rain, you'll get the flu."

"Wrap the babies up tight during the rainy season, otherwise they pee and pee and get sick."

"Be careful not to get wet, the rain is acid and it will hurt you."

One time we got caught in the rain at the main bus top in Apopa. On a good day it is a challenge to find the right bus while jostling through the crowd along the highway. Our sister pastor wove among the people with Greasy and me trying to stay close behind like a couple of good little ducklings. Suddenly the heavens opened up and torrents of rain poured from the sky. Pastor glanced over his shoulder to see if we were with him, and gave us a look which said "Oh well."

We stood for a moment, clutching our backpacks and feeling the steam rise from the tops of our wet heads. Soon the bus arrived, and we pushed and jostled just like everyone else to get on board. The two of us were not quite as assertive as our pastor, but we all made it safely aboard. Greasy and I burst out laughing, two soaking wet ducklings, relieved to be with each other on the right bus with our mama duck pastor watching over us.

A Rain Story II

2011-10-27T00:30:00.003-05:00

We drove along the highway in a red pick-up. I was scrunched onto my husband's lap, who was squeezed in next to the lawyer, who was squeezed in next to the driver. Every now and then I ran my little pink sweat-towel over the windshield and the side window to clear the view. Our sister pastor, our son and my best friend's husband were having a bathing experience in the back of the truck, as the rain tumbled from the dark gray sky.

We were determined to get a shipping container out of customs, and this involved driving documents from one place to another, in the rain.

We drove past the Hipermall...a monstrosity of a mall with high-priced stores. One time I asked a friend if anyone ever shops there. She said, "Sure, we go there. We window-shop."

We came around a curved off-ramp which encircled a small piece of land - one fourth of the clover-leaf pattern at an expressway interchange. The rain had let up, so we had a clear view of the community which had been established on this piece of clover-leaf. Small homes made of plastic, and cardboard and scrap metal crowded together with tiny dirt paths between them. No electricity. No sewers. No water. In the shadow of the Hipermall, people were living in the most desperate situation.

We drove slowly around the curve, as did the line of cars ahead of us and behind us. Suddenly a bright celeste blue umbrella emerged from between the cars. It was held by a little boy who was maybe 4 or 5 or 6 years old. He was naked, darting among the cars with his hand extended, begging for money. I heard our pastor's voice, "Where is your mommy? Go home. Go home to your mommy."

The lawyer said, "He's not lost. The parents are desperate. They sent him out to beg. They think he will get money because he is small and naked. It's not right."

This happened a long time ago, yet that little boy with the blue umbrella lives inside my head, and the desperation of parents who would send their child out naked onto the expressway to beg weighs heavy on my heart. It's not right.

As the rain lets up in El Salvador, many are desperate for food. May the world respond with immediate help and long-term support so that no mother will be tempted to send her little one out to beg. Some have so much. Many have so little. It's not right.

A Rain Story

2011-10-23T14:55:00.005-05:00

Last week brought rain on top of rain to El Salvador, and those of us with friendships and hearts in El Salvador spent the week doing the best we could to help, to network, to share, to inform and to pray for relief. Tim's El Salvador Blog has kept the news flowing as the waters flowed, and we are all grateful to him for keeping us informed.

Thanks be to God that the sun has returned to El Salvador's "sombrero azul." The rain has stopped for now, but the sorrow for those who lost family members in the rain and the mud will continue to hover like dark clouds in their hearts - and they need our continued prayers. The blue sky has returned for now, but the humanitarian crisis will continue due to flooding, loss of homes and businesses, and especially the loss of crops so close to harvest - and the country needs our continued help through our churches and our networks.

Readers of this blog may recall a few stories from past postings which speak to the power of rain in El Salvador...
The Rains Came Down
Little Capes, Big Difference
Tales of Greasy and Grubby - Worship in the Rain

This week, in the midst of the chaos of the storms, I received a phone call from a friend in our sister church community. This is unusual - not too many friends have the resources to charge up their phones for a call to the US. "Oh HI!" I said, as my friend introduced herself. "What a surprise!"

"I call you only to greet you. The women in the family commission want to say HI and Francisco said it would be OK to call you. How are you? How is your husband? How are the plans for the wedding..."

The rain had drenched them. School was suspended. All their crops were lost. But..."it's so great to chat with you - to hear your voice." Stuck in the house because of a storm, a conversation with a friend can brighten the day.

I remembered being stuck in the house because of a storm...
We called it "The Dancin' House" because during our first visit to our sister church, the community held a dance for us at this house. It was small and tidy with corrugated tin walls pieced together and a strategic narrow ditch running through the center of the hard-pack dirt floor. Greasy and Grubby had been invited to spend a couple of nights with their friend in The Dancin' House.

Not too late in the evening, we were each given our own bed with a lace-trimmed flat pillow. The bedroom also served as the closet, and the family's clothing hung from the rafters over our heads and was neatly stacked in little hampers hanging from the walls. Our friend tucked us in as if we were little ones, carefully pushing the soft yellow mosquito netting under the mattresses all around us. She and her husband and two small children crowded into a hammock in the kitchen area.

We weren't asleep yet. The rain started. First as a pitter-patter on the tin roof, then more like a train running over our heads. Drip, drip, drip...the water leaked inside through small holes in the tin. Our friend placed a plastic bucket here, a metal pan there. The water flowed faster and faster through the ditch which ran across the floor. Rush, rush, drip, drip...we slept to the lullaby of the falling rain.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny. We passed the morning visiting homes and meeting with people from the church. At lunch time we returned to The Dancin' House for a delicious meal and a little rest. The clouds rolled in and the rain began to fall. We were supposed to go visit the flautas (recorders) class up in the church, but our hostess absolutely forbade us to go out. "You could slip. You could fall. You could break a bone. We don't go out when it is like this. It's our job to keep you safe. You have to stay here."

She was right. The winds came up and the rains fell harder. The locals call this, "El Norte." We sat and watched the rain. We could hardly speak to one another because the sound of the rain on the metal roof was deafening. We shivered a bit in the wind. We marveled that so much water could fall in such little time. We thought about the families who live downhill. We learned that the strategic ditch across the middle of the dirt floor served as a convenient location for a four-year-old to relieve himself when mom wasn't looking (a much dryer option than running out to the latrine during the deluge).

Greasy took out her guitar. Grubby took out her violin. With the roaring rain for accompaniment, the two guests serenaded their friends with their finest tunes. I remember that one of our favorites was "I'll Fly Away," which we sang and played with abandon, fighting the rain for the melody line. At some point, our sister pastor's younger brother flew into the house, dripping wet with his flauta in hand. The flauta class had been cancelled, and we were stuck in the house; but the rain could not keep us from making music together.

Blog Action Day - Faces and Food

2011-10-16T22:29:00.004-05:00

Today is Blog Action Day, and the topic of the day is food.

Today has also brought more rain, more mud, more flood, more loss and more grief to the people of El Salvador. It has been hard to keep up with the news from all of the sister church communities with which we are connected. It's hard to think about our friends being wet and hungry and scared. It's hard not to think about what all of this rain will mean for the dry season ahead -- what the loss of corn and beans and fruits and vegetables will mean for families who are wet and hungry tonight, but face a long dry possibility of being very hungry in the months ahead.

During the non-stormy times, we talk together about food sustainability and learn together about organic gardening and maximizing land use and fertility by growing companion crops and creating city gardens in pots and vertical spaces.

During the stormy times, we give thanks for emergency foods which have been stored for a rainy day...

"Today we went to the community of Puerto Parada to deliver the food."

"How was your experience today in Puerto Parada?"

"It was excellent. The people were very joyful when we gave out the food. They told us that they had not had anything to eat because they could not leave much less go out to work."

"A happy and slightly sad situation at the same moment, right?"

"Yes, when I looked into the faces of the people - they were happy - satisfied to receive the food and I felt super happy and told them that all of you have prayed for them."

"Thank you for being the hands of God and the instruments of our prayers today."

"The people send many greetings to all of the people in your community."

This conversation occurred tonight as the rains were letting up slightly and the internet connection cut in and out.

This photo was taken during my last visit to Puerto Parada.

There is God

2011-10-15T20:23:00.004-05:00

It's raining.

It rained all day. It rained last night. It rained yesterday. It rained the day before.

The hurricane season has another month of life. At the end of the season tropical storms seem often to hover for days and days. The soil is saturated and begins to sink or to slide. The streets become rivers and the rivers become lakes. The corn is covered and the beans are buried by the waters.

School days are lost. Work days are lost. Crops are lost. Homes are lost. A few, and hopefully only a few, lives are lost.

Today there is much news of loss.

And today, there is also news of hope and thanks.

"Thank you for your prayers and thanks be to God that although the water has been running down the gully in front of the church, no families have been affected."

"Thank you for your prayers and thanks be to God the food was delivered."

"Hi, thanks be to God we are all OK and God has kept us safe from the danger. Thank you for your prayers."

Where there is loss, there is God. Where there is hope, there is God.

Missing You, Babe

2011-10-09T13:01:00.007-05:00

The delegation had spent a great week together. It was easy for me to serve as tour guide for it was a spunky group of guitar-toting, song-loving, eager-to-learn Spanish and ask-a-ton-of questions folks who are committed to beginning their new relationship in El Salvador in a spirit of accompaniment. We were spending our last day sitting and listening and talking with a woman whose husband had been killed in an act of violence on a bus outside of Aguilares before sharing lunch with her pastor and visiting Cihuatán.

At some point, we were squeezed into the too-small van - I was sandwiched between two guys in the very back, bumping along the road, and listening to our driver Luis' MP3 collection of classic 90's tunes in English. Of course, the guitar-toting, song-loving group was doing a lot more singing than listening. Singing the songs from proms and college days brought back fun memories which many in the group had in common, and helped to keep the spirit of joy alive as folks processed the hard moments of the day.

That juxtaposition of joy and sadness, although present in every day of our lives as human beings, rips into my day and shoves me off-balance when I am in El Salvador. As I was chatting and laughing and bumping along in the back seat of that van, the simple lyrics of a song, sung with great gusto and laughter by a group of travelers, sliced into the moment and pierced my spirit...

I could stay awake just to hear you breathing
Watch you smile while you are sleeping
While you're far away and dreaming
I could spend my life in this sweet surrender
I could stay lost in this moment forever
Where every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure

I could feel my heart being squeezed. I could hear his teenage voice, reciting these words as they were written on the page of a spiral notebook. He was learning English. He was proud to be able to read these words to me and my friend. He was reading these romantic words to two middle-aged ladies who he had only known for three days without any embarrassment.

Don't want to close my eyes
I don't want to fall asleep
Cause I'd miss you babe
And I don't want to miss a thing

But you are asleep. You are missing out on your life. Your wife is lost without you. Your daughter is growing up without knowing you. Your mother has nightmares about the night you were murdered. Your father cannot find peace.

Cause even when I dream of you
The sweetest dream will never do
I'd still miss you babe
And I don't want to miss a thing

We dream of you. We miss your dimples and your smile. We miss the boy you were and the young man you had become. We still eat at the table where you ate. We still sleep in the place where you slept. We love and play with your daughter. We care for your mom and dad. We hold your photo to our hearts and hear your voice in our ears.

The song went on. I was quiet and teary. I am thankful that I could share a little bit about my young friend's story with my new traveling friends. They are building new relationships in El Salvador. Their hearts are full. At moments, their hearts will be broken.

Tales of Frufy and Campy: Together Again

2011-10-01T20:50:00.005-05:00

We arrived bright and early on Friday morning. Our sister church pastor gave us a ride to the community. We hopped out of the vehicle and called out to Julia who was happy and so surprised to see us just after breakfast. We hugged and hugged like ositas (little bears). Pastor asked if we were OK (he had to leave for a meeting), and Julia said, "Sure we are las tres mosqueteras - una para todas y todas para una (the three musketeers - one for all and all for one)." Pastor left, and las tres mosqueteras marched down the little steps into Julia's "compound."

Julia's place has changed over the years. The original house still serves as the kitchen and storeroom. It's hard to believe that twelve years ago we all slept in this hot little space - that first night in the community cementing us together as special friends forever. The newer house is about 10 feet away from the old one, leaving enough room in between for a small circle of plastic chairs to be placed in the dappled shade of a mango tree. This is where we gathered to catch up and share the stories of our lives.

Julia proudly shares that she has lost weight and feels better. She recalls events from the night of her son's murder. The passage of time and talking about her son is helping to relieve the strain on her body and spirit. Pirate, the big dog, sniffs and settles nearby. "He knows you," Julia said. Pirate, his wife (whose name I can never remember) and Ranger (their almost grown pup) offer companionship and protection. So does the padlock on the chain link gate. The cat Mishka (or something that sounds like that) and variety of wandering chickens and ducks offer companionship.

Pretty soon it's time to walk to school to go get the little ones. It is parent-teacher conference time, and the kindergarten children and their parents are preparing for next year. The other kids are all at recess and we offer our usual enormous disruption to the organized chaos. I love the sing-songy way in which the kids call out our names.

We walk home with the kids, bumping into friends along the way. Then we return to our spot in the shade. The vegetable lady comes to the gate and Julia negotiates the purchase of green beans, tomatoes and laroco. Julia's grandson hauls out a desk (it has wheels) and takes out his homework. This is his routine, to "open his office" after school each day. Julia pulls the ends off of the beans while the little guy does homework. Pretty soon the homework, which involved coloring in some letter shapes, is finished and a little friend comes over to play. It's not even lunch time yet and we have already shared a full and lovely day.

The End of the Tales of Greasy and Grubby?

2011-09-30T12:56:00.005-05:00

Greasy and Grubby have had many adventures in El Salvador, but because Greasy's home base is now a flight away from Grubby's home base, their travels together have lessened. This fall, Grubby had the opportunity to serve as a coordinator and guide for a church in her area which is building a new relationship with a sister church in the eastern part of El Salvador. Greasy was on her way to El Salvador, accompanying her new bishop and a friend to a wedding and then making a visit out to the eastern part of El Salvador. Well, when God creates opportunities like this for Greasy and Grubby, Greasy and Grubby make plans!

The two friends headed to El Salvador and crossed paths a few times during their different journeys there: big hugs in the Bishop's office, getting to know the people in Llano el Coyol, and a brief visit at the beach. At the end of their fun and responsibilities here and there, the two of them planned a weekend get-away in their sister church community. It was planned as a surprise, as much as anything can remain a surprise when folks are connected on Facebook.

The night before heading out to the community, Greasy and Grubby were packing up their stuff...
Grubby: "I guess I'll just have to wear these green hiking sandals to church."
Greasy: "I guess I'll just have to wear these flips with the purple flowers around the community."

Grubby laid out her gray skirt with the snappy and zippy pockets and moister-wicking fabric. Greasy laid out her gray skirt with the lace and ruffles.

Grubby pulled out her orange tailored blouse. Greasy pulled out her froofy pink and purple blouse and pink tank top.

"You're so frufy and I'm so campy." It was true. Greasy had packed a whole bunch of ruffly long skirts and flowing tops (that would be the fru-fru). Grubby had packed her outdoorsy skirts and campy shirts. Greasy and Grubby laughed and decided to adopt their new nicknames: Frufy and Campy. After all, no one really wants to be called Greasy or Grubby...

So, for now... we begin the new adventures of Campy and Frufy.

And, yeah, I was the campy one.

Next post: What Frufy and Campy experienced as they surprised their sister church community.

Alabare...bum, bum, bum, bum

2011-09-21T22:47:00.001-05:00

Today we learned that Don Francisco passed away.

I wasn't surprised by this sad news. When we visited Francisco two months ago, he appeared to be declining in physical strength and in spirit. My Salvadoran goddaughter and I knelt on the floor beside his mattress and bent close so we could hear him. We held his chilled hands in ours and sang the one song we knew he loved, "Alabare." He sang with his heart and his lips, but with no strength of voice. We knew his time with us would be short.

Our visit to Casa Esperanza today was made with guitar in hand and voices ready to lift Don Francisco's spirits. When we learned that he was gone, we did not go upstairs, we did not go to his room. We missed him, but "Alabare" was sung, along with many other lively tunes so that all the clients in the house were laughing and clapping and singing with great enthusiasm!

Tonight, Mama Trini shared the story of Don Francisco's last days...
On Sunday he was grumpy and spoke in an unkind way to the woman who cares for him over the weekend. On Monday he did not want to eat, nor did he want his vitamin. He never took any medicine. He was blind and his hip was broken, but he never suffered any pain and never asked for any medications, not even acetaminophen for a headache. On Monday he asked the women who care for him to forgive him. He asked each one, 'Forgive me, forgive me.' On Tuesday he ate only a little bit of plantain and some milk, and continued to ask, 'Forgive me.' As the women who care for him we thought he was preparing to die. On Wednesday he went to sleep and by Thursday morning he had passed away.

Don Francisco will forever live in our hearts, and every time we sing "Alabare" his baritone voice and lively guitar will surely be accompanying us from heaven. Good-bye, Don Francisco...bum, bum, bum, bum.

Alabare

2011-09-20T23:13:00.004-05:00

Today we were at the beach. Warm hazy sun, a breeze off of the water, huge waves crashing at their breaking point and friends gathered together for fun made it a very perfect day. After swimming and playing beach soccer and eating delicious boca colorada fish and sharing stories with one another, we decided to share one last song together. As soon as the cords echoed through the guitars, the hands began to clap and voices rang out, "Alabare, alabare! Alabare, alabare!"

The voices rose up through the sound of the crashing waves, and within a few moments the kitchen staff and various children were singing too. Then I noticed the stranger at the gate. He appeared to be in the neighborhood to sell crabs (because he held a bundle of wriggly crabs in his hand). He set down the bundle and clapped with great exuberance. It was hard to tell if he already knew the song or was learning it quickly. The smile on his face was fantastic! I motioned to him to see if it was OK to take his photo.

Yesterday, a chorus of Alabare brought children who rarely see visitors out into the yard to chat and play, and it comforted an old man whose body is tired but spirit still wishes to sing. On Sunday, choruses of Alabare filled the church and all were inspired to sing and clap and tap their feet. This simple song of praise has been filling the air in El Salvador this week!

Pupusa Obama?

2011-09-16T22:07:00.003-05:00

Pupusas are a gastronomic experience which every visitor in El Salvador should embrace. My first pupusas were served up at Pupusaria Paty: bean and cheese. Since then I have eaten pupusas in homes, in churches, at sidewalk cafes and in large restaurants from one corner of El Salvador to the other, for breakfast, lunch, dinner and snacks. It's a good thing that I like pupusas.

On the outskirts of Nejapa at the turn of the road which leads to Apopa, with its bright green facade sits the Pupusódromo. This is one of my new favorite places for pupusas, and it has as much to do with the atmosphere and the pupusa-makers as the pupusas themselves. We arrived and settled in front of the first pupusaria in the line of pupusarias which make up the pupusodromo. We scooted benches and tables to create a suitably large dining area. We were presented with a little pad of paper and a pen so we could write down our order: all different kinds and more than 45 pupusas in all. Of course, I ordered pupusas con laroco y queso and and it definitely became a group favorite.

This morning we encountered a laroco plant - a squash-like vine that was growing up on a trellis, producing shade and little white flowers. There, in the garden outside of Monseñor Romero's house at Divina Providencia, a Carmelite nun presented us with one of the blossoms. We took turns holding it to our noses and breathing deeply while recalling the tasty and cheesy goodness of the pupusas of the night before.

This afternoon, as we sat in a large circle a question was placed before Bishop Gomez: "What is your favorite kind of pupusa?" The Bishop side-stepped the answer for a while, and told a couple of pupusa stories. The pupusa is an indigenous food; the best ones puff up as they are cooked; one place has a pupusa loca (which I believe has a little bit of everything in it).

The question was asked again. This time the response involved President Obama. Did we remember when President Obama visited El Salvador? Weeks before he came, the Bishop said, "resourceful vendors prepared a special pupusa and began calling it the Pupusa Obama." Why was it called the Pupusa Obama? It was made with black corn.

We laughed in disbelief, but the Bishop assured us that this was true. We laughed some more and asked the Bishop again...did he have a favorite kind of pupusa? The answer finally came: pupusa con laroco y queso. Of course!

I Hope

2011-09-09T10:20:00.002-05:00

The crows in my yard at home make a lot of noise. They swoop and dive and loudly call at each other, "caw, caw, caw." They walk in the grass, looking large like turkeys. They sort of give me the creeps.

Sometimes, an ordinary experience like a hearing a crow caw acts as a reminder of an extraordinary experience of the past.

The crows remind me of the vultures. They swooped, hovered over warm spots, perched everywhere. Side by side with people, they pecked at the garbage. Side by side with people, they lived in the stink of the San Salvador municipal garbage dump.

Eleven years ago, those vultures gave me the creeps. Eleven years ago, that stench entered my nostrils. Eleven years ago, families looked at me and I looked at them. They gathered their life and livelihood from the garbage; I stood speechless holding a camera. They sought shelter from the sun under tattered plastic rooftops; I wore sunscreen and a new hat. They were home; I got into a bus and drove away.

Eleven years later, the dump has been closed but the stink still lives in my nose and the cries of the vultures still live in my ears and the images of kids picking through garbage still break my heart. Those kids are grown now - I hope. The families have homes now - I hope. The adults have work now - I hope. The new generation is going to school now - I hope.

It Broke

2011-09-04T20:24:00.003-05:00

My left wrist is typically adorned with several bracelets. These are gifts from friends and I really do wear them until they break.

This week, one broke. I was sitting in the kitchen, working at my computer, and just like that the elastic broke and little lavender beads scattered across the kitchen floor. I thought about the little girl who had given me this beaded bracelet -- I have known her since she was a baby. I have slept in her home. I have eaten many meals with her at my side. We have done homework together. I stood behind her when she was confirmed. Her great-grandma was my secret friend. When her grandma was surprised with a birthday party, we were there together.

I didn't need the bracelet to help me to remember to pray for this family, but I have to admit that whenever I caught a glimpse of it on my wrist or had the occasion to move it around a bit, I gave my young friend and her very big and special family an extra thought.

I grabbed the vacuum to gather up the scattered beads before my dog could do it for me, and then sat down at my computer for a quick check of messages. A window popped open with a message from Greasy: I have sad news...

Soon Greasy and I were in a chat conversation with our sister church pastor. Don Rene had died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage. My young friend had lost her grandpa.

Don Renee was more than a grandpa. He was the patriarch of a large household of mostly women. He was an artisan, working with wood. He was the protector for his adult son, who because of threats and past affiliations cannot leave home. He was an elder in the community, building with his wife one of the first ramshackle homes on land given to war refugees. He was devoted to Monseñor Romero and a dear friend and support to our sister church pastor.

The e-chat ended. I had to go to a meeting and Pastor was on his way to the vigil for don Rene, where the people would "sing beside the body."

Of all the memories I have of time spent with don Rene, the strongest and most beautiful is the sight of him playing guitar and singing with his mariachi buddies at the surprise birthday party for don Rene's wife. Rene loved to play and loved to sing, and he did so with great gusto and a broad smile. Whenever the community gathered together for a vigil, don Rene was ready with his guitar. As I was driving off to my meeting, I could hear the voices of the people gathered in and around the ramshackle house, singing beside the body of don Rene. Surely God has given him a big bass guitar...

I am looking at my wrist. The bracelet is gone, but I can still feel it there.

Just Click: A few more photos from the Tourist Day of Fun

2011-08-28T11:30:00.012-05:00

"She's always got her camera out the window taking photos."

It's true. In between the singing, the story-telling, the joking around, and the occasional tour-guiding, I spent a fair amount of time looking out the bus window and snapping photos. This was a source of great interest to our Salvadoran friends. At one point one of the grandmas told her little guy to "sit up and enjoy the scenery - this is a chance to see things you don't usually get to see."

So, for everyone on the bus who didn't have a camera to stick out the window and click away, here are the sights along the road during our recent Tourist Day of Fun...

Help Us

2011-08-23T09:24:00.004-05:00

He is a teenager. He is looking forward to going to high school. He is intelligent and kind. He lives with a serious medical condition. He is a devoted son and big brother. He sent us a message:

I hope you are well, surrounded by your loved ones. I hope when you read this you are in good health. I think you remember that I told you that I had been threatened. Later, after some time, in other words today, I received a telephone call from someone who said they had not met me but had heard that some people who I don't know are going to kill me. Not me alone but also my whole family. They are going to cut up our bodies into pieces: the hands, or the arms, or the head or whatever parts they want. We want to leave our community. Help us...

At first he thought his family could go far away to be more safe. Later he said it wouldn't matter.

Maybe these are idle threats meant to scare, to intimidate, to exact a payment for some perceived level of security.

Maybe these are real threats. Two teenagers we know have been missing for several months. Surely there are many we don't know who have been killed, disappeared, harmed or threatened.

The police hear "help us." The government, from mayor's offices to President Funes hear "help us." The churches and charitable organizations hear "help us." We hear "help us."

We have seen responses to the calls for help in action -- from mayors and pastors and aid organizations and volunteers and even President Funes. We have seen neighborhoods restored to peace. Yet peace in the neighborhoods is fleeting. Mothers cannot let down their guard. The threats and the dangers are constantly on the move.

How do we respond to "help us?"

I don't have an answer, but I am inspired by the mothers. Every day, throughout the day the mothers pray over their children. They give thanks for each moment of life. They pray for God to send angels to guard and preserve life. And they themselves act as angels of protection for their children. There is power in mothers who, rooted in love, join forces with one another to fight for the lives of their children.

Join your prayers today with the prayers of the mothers of R. and D., two young people who are still missing; and with the family who has been threatened and has cried out, "Help us."

Off the Beaten Path: Juayua is Worth More than Just a Click

2011-08-13T12:30:00.010-05:00

After lunch in Santa Ana, we headed out on a beautiful mountain highway to the small town of Juayua, which apparently I have included in a Just Click story once before. I think it's funny that such a little town, sort of off of the beaten path, has made it into my Salvadoran experiences a number of times. Juayua is an endpoint for traveling the Ruta de las Flores - a lovely scenic drive which everyone in our group was eager to experience, so it was the perfect opportunity to spend a little time soaking in the local culture.

We parked the bus in the town square, and set a return time so that everyone could wander about at their leisure. Most of the women in the group walked straight to the church. Several parishoners were kneeling as the priest was saying the Mass, and the women in our group knelt in the back rows, instructing their children to kneel quietly beside them. After spending some time in prayer, our group emerged from the church to admire the facade and the nearby flowers. Then we scattered, this way and that, into the shops and under the trees in the town square.

I wandered over to a woman who was selling one of my all-time favorite street foods: green mango with chili! The mangoes are peeled and sliced into small plastic bags. Then, per the customer's desire, a couple of spoonfuls of different ground-up spices and a few squirts of red chili sauce are added. Delicious! Next it was into the corner bakery where I bought a sweet piece of tamarind cake to share on the bus. It was a beautiful cloudy afternoon, and most of our group had gathered beneath the trees which surround a circular fountain in the center of the square. We shared our treats with one another, which ended up producing a lot more business for the green-mango-with-chili lady.

As we were relaxing and sharing stories, I recalled one of my favorite visits to Juayua...back in 2005. We were a pretty large group of families and college youth from my home church, and we were taking a day to relax and see some of the countryside after running a big VBS event with leaders from the Salvadoran Lutheran Church. It was December, and the flowers along the Ruta de las Flores were abundant and amazing. We had driven the Route of the Flowers and ended up in Juayua. We had to part outside of town and walk in because the Feria Gastronomica or Food Festival was in full swing. Vendors were selling all kinds of artisan crafts and textiles from throughout El Salvador, many of which had unique Guatemalan influences. The highlight of that day was when our teenage son was invited to play the marimba with a local street band.

Although the recent visit was not on a Food Festival day, some of the Salvadorans in our group had heard about it and were making plans to come back in the future.

Before we knew it, it was time to get on the bus and head out onto the Route of the Flowers. It's never easy to get everyone back onto a bus after a leisurely break when all are scattered about. First we were missing two, then two more...it's really pretty funny how this is the same no matter where you are and that you can almost always guess who the missing ones will be. We laughed and joked around about this once we were on our way.

Unfortunately, along the Ruta de las Flores the flowers were just starting to bloom so there were not too many to see. Yet, flowers or no flowers, a beautiful drive through the countryside, when the breeze blowing into the bus windows is almost cool, when musica romantica is playing in the background and conversation is singing in the foreground, when and treats and cake are passing from friend to friend, is a wonderful way to spend an afternoon together.

Off the Beaten Path: Santa Ana Remix

2011-08-08T15:58:00.005-05:00

The "Tourist Day of Fun" bus journey with our sister church community friends continues...

We took a short drive from Tazumal to the city of Santa Ana. Neither we nor our driver had ever entered the city from that side, so we had to stop and ask for directions. Soon we were on a street which showed up on our city map. It was fun to see the modern outskirts as we navigated our way into the colonial and early 20th century architecture and narrow streets of the old city center. We emerged from the bus across from the cathedral, counted heads, and like a row of ducks walked across the square to enter the cathedral.

Ines was the only one from our sister community who had been to the city of Santa Ana. She had come to visit the cathedral twice, quite some time ago. Ines told us that when her twins were born, they had health problems. She came to the cathedral for some purpose at that time, either for a blessing or to pray or to request a mass -- her serious face and low tone of voice indicated that it had been a very difficult time for her, so no one pressed her for details. Thanks be to God, her twins are now healthy and happy teen-agers who play soccer and do well in school.

We walked into the sanctuary, and most of the women knelt down to pray. A few stood quietly gazing and the statues, walking slowly, pausing often. We stayed a good long time, and every now and then one of the women would ask me to take a photo of her in front of the altar or one of the side altars.

My friend Julia knows all of the stories about the saints. We stopped near a statue of St. Martin de Porres. Julia is drawn to him because he is brown-skinned and the saint for mixed-race peoples. She told me about the orphanage he started and how he was known to be kind to animals. She knows a lot of details about the miracles which surround this saint, and I think she wanted her little grandson to "overhear" all of the stories as she told me. At one point in her narrative we were interrupted by a man who had been praying fervently at a nearby altar. He asked if we knew of any work he could do; he was desperate to find work so he could feed his family. He was well-educated and had been working as a professional in some kind of business but had been laid off. He was dressed up to come to the church to pray and then to go to an agency. Julia listened carefully and offered her understanding and prayers.

We emerged into the sunlight, took a group photo (it was Tourist Day!), and wandered over to the theater, and, determining it was too expensive for all of us to go inside, decided to hang out in the square. We sent a "scouting team" to find a cafe that could feed 27 people, and they had success! We spent about 15 minutes taking photos in the shade and laughing at the antics of the kids. Noontime arrived and we walked in our duck-line to the cafe. It was a wonderful place with a big covered patio area that could seat a large crowd. Chicken, rice, veggies, Chow Mien with shrimp, tortillas and soda. We sat at small tables in groups so we could chat and enjoy lunch together. It was just lovely.

After lunch we climbed aboard the bus for our next destination...la Ruta de las Flores!

For more about Santa Ana, you can read my previous Off the Beaten Path Story.

Off the Beaten Path: Road Trip to Tazumal

2011-07-31T21:34:00.011-05:00

The bus rolled down the highway, filled with the voices of people chatting, singing and laughing. We were on our way to Tazumal, site of some pretty famous Mayan ruins, and the first stop on our road trip.

To best understand the atmosphere on the bus and the stories and photos from Tazumal and our other field trip destinations, it might be helpful to have a little background information. Five of us had traveled from our homes in the US to visit with our sister church community in El Salvador. As part of our partnership together, we have a scholarship program which enables kids, who may not otherwise be able to go to school, to study. There are 84 kids in the program, including 16 who are studying at the university level. The five travelers are sponsors for one or more students, and the plan for the visit included spending time with scholarship families in their homes, touring the different schools with the students as the guides, and going on field trips with students or parents.

The trip to Tazumal and Santa Ana was one of our field trips. We had moms, grandmas, youth, a few little ones, Francisco (coordinator of the scholarship program) and the the US contingent. One mom brought her elementary school children explaining, "they got permission to miss school today because this is a once-in-a-lifetime learning opportunity." It was the first time for almost everybody to go to Tazumal. Earlier in the week, we went with three moms to the National Anthropology Museum, and a group of students had taken us to the anthropology museum at the Technological University, so we were ready to see the site where so many of the ancient artifacts had been found.

We pulled into a small town named Chalchuapa, and a couple of blocks into town there it was: The Tazumal pyramid! I am not sure what I expected, but perhaps more of an open field with a volcano in the distance and the pyramid rising up. I guess it makes sense to find an archeological site in the midst of an old town -- this has been a place where people lived and worshiped for a long, long time.

We spilled out of the bus and went to the entrance window to pay our fees. The grandmas among us made sure that we got the senior citizen discount for them, and in we went. We started our tour in the museum, and everyone looked at the artifacts with great interest. There were signs in Spanish, but not a lot of background story. Those of us who could remember the legends told them as best we could, and at one point a caretaker explained the story of Xipe Totec.

After the museum, our college students gave us a tour of the pyramid, and insisted on taking lots of photos! We were all completely tourists - it was great! Half-way around our walk around the pyramid base, some of the ladies were already planning the Scholarship Family Trip Tourist Days for next year. Their goal: visit another amazing archeological site and...visit the playa!! (the beach).

Next stop: Santa Ana

Jammin' to the same Tunes

2011-07-24T11:10:00.003-05:00

One by one, the moms, young adults and a couple of little ones climbed into the bus. It was 7:30 am and we were heading out from our sister church community to tour Tazumal and Santa Ana. Delegations often do a day or two of "tourist" activities during a sister church visit, but this delegation was different - it was all about doing things together. So, on this day, the "tourists" were mostly Salvadoran. Out of the 24 people from our sister church community on that bus, only 2 of the young people had been to Tazumal on school field trips, and only one had seen the cathedral in Santa Ana.

We headed for the highway, and not too far down the road one of the young ladies popped up front to chat with the driver. (First of all, it was extremely funny that she knew the driver - in El Salvador I think there are only 2 degrees of separation between people.) She flipped down the DVD player and put in a music DVD. (It was also funny that we have ridden in this coaster many times and did not even know there was a DVD player.)

The first DVD featured a female singer, and the young ladies in the bus all crooned along with her. Then came the música romántica and my friend Julia belted out the lyrics in that deep off-key voice that is so recognizably and beautifully hers. The women teased Julia about her husband and their dating days more than 30 years ago. There was so much singing, and so much laughing -- just what you might expect from a bus full of excited kids on a field trip.

Then came the question, "¿Te gusta ABBA?"

"ABBA, yeah, I love ABBA!" I replied.

Seriously, I do love ABBA. ABBA Gold is my "go-to" CD when I am scrubbing and dusting and doing laundry and need to get it done fast.

In between songs, Julia leans over and says, "I turn up the volume and listen to ABBA when I am doing the laundry and cleaning my house."

"Really?" I said with surprise, "Me too!"

And so there were were, on a bus to Santa Ana. 24 Salvadorans and 3 North Americans, laughing and teasing and singing along with ABBA.

More about Tazumal and our other excursions in my next story.

A Little Miracle

2011-07-16T15:24:00.005-05:00

We were getting ready to leave the community after a long and fun day.

"Miss Linda, you have to come over to my house!"

Frankie was insistent, "You really have to come over to my house," he said again, grabbing my hand.

"Hey you guys!" I called out to my group, "I'll be right back. Apparently I have to go to Frankie's house."

I asked Frankie if it was OK with his mom. He assured me that his mom really wanted me to come.

I gingerly climbed down the steep path, grabbing onto the barbed wire for balance. Frankie ran ahead into the house, and then emerged again extending his hand. He led me into the front room of the two room house. Frankie's mom greeted me just inside the door with a big warm hug. She turned toward the big double bed behind her, and with a little gesture presented her new baby daughter, Melissa.

Melissa was sleeping peacefully on a sturdy little waterproof pad, which her mother scooped up and placed into my arms. I could feel her all warm and round and cozy in her little padded nest, and I held her up to my face to smell her and give her a little kiss.

A miracle. This baby is a miracle. "Un milagro. Felicidades," I whispered.

I looked up at Frankie, standing off to the side and grinning ear to ear. I looked toward the doorway of the second room, where his brother, a little older, was smiling shyly. I looked into Mom's eyes, which were teary like mine, and we both smiled great big smiles of pure joy.

"How old is she?"

"Six weeks."

"She is big and happy."

"She is a miracle."

There are no words to describe just how joyful this moment was, nor the wisdom in Frankie's insistence in making this visit happen.

A year and a half ago, Frankie held my hand on the steep path. Frankie and his family and the women of the community were together in this room. Frankie was at my side as I gently lifted the cold body of his baby sister from her small white coffin and held her, and kissed her, and baptized her, and buried her.

I placed Melissa into her mother's arms. "Thank you for inviting me to come."

Frankie handed me a well-worn little stuffed panda. "This is for you," he said.

"Thank you, Frankie."

We climbed hand-in-hand up the steep path.

Say Yes to JELLO!

2011-07-12T00:24:00.003-05:00

After church we walked down the hill from the church, past the school to the lunch spot. One of the moms in the community opened her home to our 5-person delegation and about 25 community members. The Family Commission, women leaders from different sectors in the community, came together to cook the celebration feast. It began with soup - big bowls of steaming soup filled with big chunks of vegetables and chicken parts. Stacks of piping hot tortillas were set in the middle of the table and cold grape soda was served in styrofoam cups. The silverware was carefully wrapped in napkins like in a fancy restaurant, and the tables were covered with lace and embroidered tablecloths.

The soup itself was more than sufficient for a meal, but then out came the rice - tasty when added to the soup or piled on a plate. Everyone had china plates, and the women must have gathered them from each of their homes and their friends' homes so that there were enough. One of the women brought around a big pan full of freshly grilled chicken breasts, pounded thin and seasoned lightly. It must have taken hours to grill all of that chicken on the tiny grate over the oil-drum grill.

We weren't expecting dessert, but then it appeared: a tray filled with styrofoam cups with spoon handles sticking straight up and jiggling rapidly as they were served. Yes, it was JELLO - grape JELLO.

To eat it, or not to eat it, that was the question. I did not worry one bit about eating it, and dug in with my white plastic spoon. It was cold and delicious. The other delegation members, well-trained not to drink the local water unless it is boiled were skeptical.

"It's half-boiled," one person reasoned.

"Then I'll only eat half," another replied.

It was hard to refuse such a treat, made with great effort in a very hot place where very few have refrigerators. "That probably means they used ice to make it jell."

Oh no, the dreaded ice - we all know the effects of the dreaded ice.

In the end, everyone ate the grape JELLO, and then came the waiting for the special effects. Gracias a Dios, no ill effects were experienced.

Two days later, we sat around a big table at another home with another set of wonderful cooks, and another serving of JELLO - this time, cherry red. The little boy next to me was so excited, "Gelatina!" he crowed, "just like I told you - it's my favorite food!"

Some ate half, some ate it all, and all was well.

Why this sudden popularity of JELLO - something we had never eaten in El Salvador up to this point in time? Who knows...maybe someone in the community got a refrigerator that works...or maybe they are more skilled at getting JELLO to jell with ice than I am.

And why did we not feel any ill effects of what was certainly made with water that is notorious for causing extreme effects? Well...maybe JELLO made by Lutherans and eaten by Lutherans really is a food made in heaven.

¿Todos somos niñas y niños, verdad?

2011-07-04T21:41:00.007-05:00

From the top of the hill we could see yellow and pink and blue balloons, strung in an archway along the side of the path. This was our first sign that the afternoon would be special.

We walked carefully down the steep slope, down the crumbling stairs, across the little ditch, pausing at the ballooned gateway for a "pase, pase", and we entered the front yard of the party house. White plastic chairs, borrowed from the church, were lined up beneath the metal porch roof. We were invited to sit down, which we did for a moment here and a moment there in between standing up to greet each new arrival.

As we were served chilled cola in styrofoam cups, a big box from Mister Pan was carried inside. Soon, china plates with gigantic pieces of cake were handed to each of us. On top of the orange drink, the fruit salad with honey, and the blue frozen treat with gummy worms inside which we had received at our three previous home visits of the day, the cake was the perfect dessert.

We had fun chatting with the kids and parents. It was especially meaningful to two members of our group who sponsor one of the kids from our host family in the church's scholarship program. Before we knew it, a piñata which looked like a cross between a Pooh bear and a Pokemon character was hanging from the bamboo rafters. How fun! A piñata for the kids...or so we thought.

Shouts of "madrina! madrina!" came from the moms who were present.

"No, no," we said, "piñatas are for the children."

"¿Todos somos niñas y niños, verdad? We are all children, right?" one of the moms said, and so the scholarship "godmother" reluctantly took the stick in her hands.

With sugar coursing through her veins and the heat of the day giving her face a lovely glow, the madrina took her swings.

"¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Abajo! ¡Abajo!"

Shouts of higher! higher! lower! lower! filled the front porch as one of us padrinos had a turn to swing the big stick at the elusive piñata. One by one we were called up, blindfolded, spun around five times, and given the stick. One of the moms pulled on the string and the piñata rose up and down, occasionally suffering a big whack and losing first one foot and then another. The head separated from the body, but still it danced through the air. Some kids joined in the fun, and the moms did too. Eventually candy was spilled and tossed into the air, and we all ended up with pockets full of treats.

"I have not laughed so hard in a long time," said the madrina who had taken the first reluctant swings.

Piñatas are for everyone, because we are all children...right!

I Can't Believe I am Packing Beanie Babies

2011-06-28T17:30:00.004-05:00

The title says it all.

I can't believe I am packing Beanie Babies.

So, if you have read the story about the Beanie Baby Disaster, you will certainly wonder why I would again consider packing a suitcase full of Beanie Babies for children in El Salvador.

Well...

the Youth Center in Guazapa has a very good program called, "Toys Not Arms." About five years ago, my friend Greasy and I were present for the first anniversary celebration of the Youth Center. Recently, the pastor wrote to me remembering this special connection, and she humbly asked if we could send some toys for an upcoming month of anti-violence activities. The Toys Not Arms program will be a part of the overall program, and the anti-violence sculpture will be expanded and renewed.

Over the years, I have seen evidence that the Toys Not Arms program has been present in various communities as part of greater anti-violence initiatives. These initiatives seem to make a difference when the church, the schools, the local government, the local police and other non-profit agencies work together to provide after-school and weekend activities and classes for children and youth.

Now, of course I happen to think that if kids are going to trade in toy guns (or guns and weapons of any kind which they find or acquire), little cuddly and cute stuffed animals are the perfect anti-weapon gift to give in return. When the church where I work in the US received bags and bags of little stuffed animals as a donation, it was a huge blessing! There were more than enough to share, and so, with God's sense of humor guiding the way, I find myself stuffing 100 Beanie Babies into an old tweed suitcase for their journey to Guazapa. A friend also was able to get a big supply of yo-yo's and donations of crayons...also good anti-weapon gifts for children youth who are learning to say NO to violence.

This time, there will be no Beanie Baby Disaster. This time, children and youth will receive a small gift of peace and play as they turn away from toys which promote violence.

The Beanie Baby Disaster

2011-06-24T18:11:00.002-05:00

We were going to El Salvador to stay in our sister church community for the first time, and we had some ideas.

The plan:
1) Three of us as the healing team would work with the local health department to run a small clinic in the church for a few hours each day for 3 days.
2) Four of us as the teaching team would run a Vacation Bible School event during those same hours in the school.

The VBS plan was made jointly through email. We worked on the details - taking our home church's summer VBS theme, translating some basic lessons and songs into Spanish, developing some art projects, planning special treats and collecting a few surprises for the children. We packed our suitcases with the supplies we needed and off we went.

The school teachers were more than generous in opening up their classroom to us and giving us a couple of prime time hours to work with the kids. It didn't take us long to realize that our lesson plans were not clicking with the kids. Translating into Spanish our North-American-culturally-relevant VBS lessons with the theme "God's Plan for You" did not quite get us into a culturally relevant zone with the Salvadoran kids. The Bible speaks for itself, so at least the scripture verses were OK. Our art project went much more smoothly, so everyone got to take a little extra time creating their little "self-portraits" from felt.

Snack time was excellent. It was the first time for the most of the kids in our sister community to taste peanut butter...yes, we had packed peanut butter and jelly and crackers in our suitcases. It was a fine dining experience as the big kids waited on the little kids with little plates of saltines slathered with PB & J.

On day number two we ditched the translated thematic songs and focused on the stuff that was working. The kids made time capsules and talked a little bit about what their dreams for the future were. We pulled out our "limited-Spanish-Go-To" songs like "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes" and "El es El Rey" which were a big hit. More PB & J. Good times.

On day number three, which began as another good day, we had planned a surprise. We ceremoniously unfurled the banner with all of the little felt people placed in the arco iris (if you didn't click on that art project link earlier, do it now). The kids were so surprised to see "themselves" amidst all the kids from the north in a beautiful rainbow. This was good a good gift for the community.

The next surprise was the distribution of a gift to each student. This event is now known as: "The Beanie Baby Disaster."

Our intentions were good. We had more than 100 animals and there were about 80 kids in the one-room school. We opened the suitcase and a near riot ensued. The teachers calmed the pandemonium, telling the kids to take their seats, while stuffing their own little peluches into their desk drawers and purses. We were able, with the help of the teachers, to give each child a new little friend to cuddle. And then school was let out for the day. We quickly shoved the suitcase under the desk, a few little animals still hidden away inside.

Then came the solicitations: "Give me one for my sister." "Give me one for my cousin." "My mommy would really like one, give me one for my mommy." The tones of voice were pleading. We stood firm, "No." Eventually everyone went home. I think we took the few extras to the pastor, so he could give them to children who were sick or in special need of a cuddly friend.

We learned some very valuable lessons from The Beanie Baby Disaster:
1. Surprises are best shared beforehand with the leaders to make sure they are a good idea.
2. Never open a suitcase full of stuff in the midst of a crowd.
3. Think before packing a suitcase full of stuff.
4. Seek to share gifts which build up community, rather than tear it down.

It has been eleven years since that first shared VBS. The rainbow banner still hangs in the church. The Beanie Babies are long gone.

Special Ones

2011-06-20T16:21:00.004-05:00

For those of us who hang out at Lutheran Churches, and lots of other churches too, summer brings VBS (translation: Vacation Bible School). This year our home church in the US started the summer off with a one day VBS designed for special needs children and their families. It was a beautiful event, run by volunteers from age 14 through 74, some with expertise in working with special needs children, and all with a heart for this new ministry. We heard over and over from the parents, "This is such a great experience; there are very few opportunities like this."

It was great. Great for parents to have a little personal time outside under the trees or chatting with one another. Great for each child to be accompanied by his or her own new teacher friend for special time in music, art, recreation and games. Great for everyone to gather together for a Bible story. Great to be in a safe place where love was oozing out all over the place.

I have been thinking about what the parents said: "great" and "very few opportunities like this." And I have been thinking about another great experience in a place where there are very few opportunities. I've been thinking about a special little boy.

William lives in El Salvador. He has cognitive delays, and in El Salvador the public schools do not have places for children like William. I met William in a little kindergarten, which had been started by a caring woman who, like the VBS volunteers, has created a place where love oozes out all over the place. She said that children like William usually cannot go to school, and usually end up in the street begging in order to survive. She gave William a place. She gave William a dedicated teacher friend. She gave William an opportunity.

William graduated from kindergarten. I'm not sure where he is now. I hope he has a safe place to be. I hope he has a teacher who loves him. I hope his parents have found an opportunity for him, because, just like all children, William is special.

First Fruits

2011-06-14T21:25:00.004-05:00

A long while back, one of us told a story. Every now and then, one of us retells the story...

A little group of visitors had come to our sister church community - a first visit. While they were at the church, a farmer named Luis came carrying a bag of beans: beans which he had planted, tended and picked, beans which were the first fruits from his field. Luis presented the beans, the offering which he brought to the church, as a gift to the visitors. This was a gift of hospitality, a gift of gratitude, a gift of first fruits.

This is one of those little stories which has become a part of our sister church history - the collection of tales and adventures we pass along from one visitor to another, from one who visits in person to another who visit in stories.

A long while back, a Sunday School lesson emerged from the telling of the gift of first fruits, and a simple art project was designed to help children and families to share the story at home. Every now and then the story is retold. Every now and then, another family hangs a little plaque with beans on the wall in their kitchen. Every now and then, we remember that our sister church relationship began with an act of generosity and a gift of first fruits.

Legendary

2011-06-07T17:52:00.007-05:00

We arrived in the evening. It was dark. It was raining.

The main cobblestone road in the center of the small community was all dug up. For the community, this was good, a result of a sewer project which would carry away the dirty water and latrine waste to an appropriate treatment place. For the late-night walkers - not so good.

We navigated our way along the trench, stepping on rocks, tip-toeing across slippery boards which covered unknown depths. We had our backpacks slung over our shoulders, our umbrellas or flashlights gripped in our hands. We looked like a colorful line waddling ducklings, following our swiftly walking leaders.

I was following Nancy at the back of the pack. I am short. Nancy is really short. We came to a narrow board which traversed a big hole. The board did not look sturdy, so our Salvadoran guides (who had ushered the rest of the line safely into the house and who were now standing beside the hole) told Nancy to jump. There was no way little Nancy could jump over that hole. I am not really sure how she made it across, some swift combination of leaping and tip-toeing on the board and Salvadorans grabbing her elbows resulted in success.

Then it was my turn. As I attempted to copy Nancy's move, something not so graceful occurred and ... thanks to the Salvadorans, I did not fall into the hole.

This does not seem like much of a story. But the retelling of the Great Rescue, "...as Linda was about to fall into a deep, deep hole, we grabbed her under the arms (picture great dramatic action) and picked her up like a little doll (more dramatic action) and saved her life, ¡Dios mío!" provided entertainment for the remainder of the evening.

And not just for the remainder of the evening. This story is repeated every time we meet, not only in the small community in which the great rescue occurred, but throughout the greater San Salvador area. In fact, friends from the US and El Salvador who visit the community come to me to say that they have heard the tale of The Great Rescue when two women saved my life by lifting me up when I was falling into a big, deep hole.

Yes, I have become legendary.

Something to Think About

2011-06-01T09:57:00.004-05:00

My trash gets picked up once a week. This is a luxury.

My family is pretty intense when it comes to trash. We reuse every piece of paper with a little blank space. We recycle every scrap of cardboard packaging and mail. We compost all of my organic kitchen waste. We use non-recyclables for art projects or other purposes. We free-cycle. Still, we put out a little bag of trash each week, and it is taken away, and we do not have to think much about it after that.

We hang out at a local church that tries to implement good trash practices too. It's a little more difficult in an urban environment, especially when recyclables do not get picked up regularly. But scrap metal is a source of income, and free-cycling is very easy with so many neighbors. The multiple bags of trash get picked up once a week, and this is a luxury.

In our sister church community in El Salvador, the luxury of trash collection and disposal does not exist. The people there do not have legal title to their land so community services have been difficult to secure. Trash is everywhere.

Some families try to compost, but with tiny plots around their homes and just a few plants which grow in the hard-pack dirt or in random containers, there is no soil to mix with the scraps and no desire to attract more insects or rodents. Some families recycle food scraps by feeding them to their dogs, cats, chickens and ducks. Stray dogs, in fact, are an asset to the community, cleaning up the edible trash from the pathways.

Some families have little buckets for garbage. They burn whatever will burn in their cooking fires, including lightweight plastic wrappers, which melt with pungent aromas under the tamale pots. The trash left behind is taken to the edges of the community and dumped onto the hillside next to the highway or dumped on the flat land at the bottom of the hill near what is known as "the dirty river." The dirty river is not really a river, but the accumulation of used water from laundry and bathing which runs through the little yards, watering the trees and satisfying the ducks, down the edges of the pathways to the bottom of the hill. There it rests as a murky creek of white foam and algae mixed with junk food wrappers and old shoes.

Where do you put the trash when there is no place to put the trash?

One time, we had this idea to do a project with the youth in our sister community. Modeled after a kids' gardening and work program which helps to keep the city blocks around our local church clean, we launched a clean-up campaign in our Salvadoran community. We gave out gloves. We gave out buckets. We accompanied them on trash patrol. We did our best to at least get the trash into some designated areas. After several hours of work, the kids broke for a snack. The snack wrappers ended up on the ground. Old habits are hard to break, and when hours of cleaning don't seem to make a huge difference, well, what's the point?

Since that not-so-successful project day, the youth and the adults have been learning more about gardening in tiny spaces and more about the responsibility God places on people to care for his creation.

The community was able to get the government to install some trash bins along the highway. They are always beyond overflowing, and the neighborhood cows and horses still munch away at big nasty piles of trash which surround the bins, but the idea of placing trash in a designated place has taken hold. The pathways are a little less trashy. The youth are thinking about doing a clean-up project at the dirty river.

Back home, we have the luxury of watching our little bag of trash disappear every Monday. What if we had to deal with that little bag, and the next week's bag, and the spring cleaning bags, and the odd big stuff we pay to get rid of...what if all that trash had to stay in our yard and in our neighborhood. It's something to think about.

Beyond the Walls

2011-05-23T20:18:00.011-05:00

Our sister church community was formed when families were brought together in the convolution of lost and landless families and the Peace Accords and refugee resettlement and strangers who suddenly became neighbors. Families were given small plots of land which had been carved off of the corners of the surrounding plantations in response to a directive of the Peace Accords to implement land reform. To their designated lots of rocky earth moms and dads and teens and little ones dragged sheets of corrugated tin and plastic, or sticks with which to construct mud and stick walls. The top of the hill was claimed for the church, Heroes of the Faith Lutheran Church, and the pathways were given the names of martyrs and heroes.

Little by little, families worked to make their homes a bit more permanent, with adobe or cement. And little by little, friendships formed, relatives joined their family members and the community grew. The little community, which was originally described as an unnamed spot on the road to Tonacatepeque, became "Los Héroes." And although the community earned an official name, the people have yet to gain official deed to their lots. The absence of legal titles for the property has been a constant challenge...

No official school: then the fight for a teacher, for accreditation, for promised government resources. Today, there is a little school for children in pre-kindergarten through grade 6. The fight now: for a wall to protect the children from the busy road and the violence which often occurs there.

No police protections: then the fight for patrols outside of the community, for patrols on the soccer field. Little by little, the police came to provide protection and security for special events. Now the soldiers are there too, standing and watching from their posts at the top of the hill. Some of the soldiers chat with the neighbors. Some of the soldiers bang on doors during the night, looking for gang members. Some of the officers smile and make funny faces at the little kids. Some of the officers bang on doors during the day, flipping the mattresses, peering into the nooks and crannies of the tiny homes, looking for evidence of gang affiliation.

Los Héroes has grown up in an environment of growing violence throughout the country. As a community which began its life as an unlikely gathering of strangers on tiny plots of untitled land - a community in which building consensus has been nearly impossible - a community in which religious and political differences have often created divisions - a community situated in an unnamed spot on one of the most violence-prone roads in the country, Los Héroes has experienced intense growing pains. Gangs are active. Murders have happened. Young lives have been lost. And in response, walls have been built.

Walking the paths through the community once offered views of the countryside in the distance, and views of the front yards and homes along the paths. The countryside is still there; the yards are hidden. Most are enclosed, surrounded by metal or concrete block or barbed wire or old bed springs. The families have walled themselves in, seeking safety from the violence around them.

Walls built around families do not help to build community. Inside their little fortresses, families know this.

So, in the one place which has always represented community, the one place in which all are welcome, the one place where walls were built by the hands of grieving mothers and gang members together, in this one place, the church, people gather in community. Youth groups, Bible study groups, support groups, community development groups have been nurtured in this place. Families are being empowered to host group meetings in their homes, with some groups strategically designed so that people do not need to walk across gang boundaries which could place them in danger. From behind the walls and through the open gates, lively conversation and laughter and the energy of friends being together and building community bubble up and out.

Recently, a person who has functioned as a source of political and religious and geographic division in the community came to the top of the hill, to the Lutheran Church, seeking permission and training to start a Bible Study group and to work together with others in an effort to further unite the community. This person's petition was welcomed publicly and joy was expressed by all who were gathered in the church that while the visible walls may need to persist, the invisible walls continue to crumble.

A Special Gift from "Mi Papá"

2011-05-17T15:35:00.006-05:00

At some point, we became family. Not just "sister church family" or "brothers and sisters in Christ" family, but family that is rooted in genuine love and care for each other.

My sister church pastor and I are the same age. We think alike. We joke around. We are serious. When my dad died, I grieved in El Salvador and he was with me. When my best friend told me she was moving away, she did it when the three of us were together so we could hold each other up. He has lived in my home, and I have lived in his. His mom and dad love me like a daughter. His sisters and brothers love me like a sister. We hang out. We help each other with chores. We chat over the internet. We celebrate special days together, when we can.

I had been in El Salvador for a month, partly with delegations, partly on my own, working and spending time in our sister community. In between this and that, I spent time relaxing and sharing meals at my Salvadoran family's house. On my last day, Papá insisted that I stop by for something special. He brought out a plastic bag, and carefully unwrapped a little wooden church. I recognized it right away - it was his church, Springs in the Desert. He laughed and said he had not planned very well, having had to stay up all night to finish this special gift. He showed me the windows, the little crosses on top, the blue-green paint which exactly matches the paint on the real church.

Then, with a grin, Papá twisted the cross at the top of the little church, turning and turning until it was removed. Still grinning, he pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket and turned a small screw in the roof of the church, and said, "Look, it's a secret," as the roof came off. "You can put your treasures in here."

His son gazed his dad with a proud smile. "My dad is always inventing things," he said, with a chuckle. "Do you know this is a very special gift for you? He made it so you can remember his church even when you are not here." Mamá stood to the side, smiling and slightly shaking her head.

Papá is retired, after serving a good many years as the pastor at Springs in the Desert. He and his wife have touched the lives of many young pastors over the years, including Bishop Gómez, serving as role models of faith and dedication during difficult times. Three of their children are pastors and the multitude of grandchildren are active youth leaders in the church.

I have Papá a big hugging thank you. He carefully put the roof back onto the church, and wrapped it back up in its plastic bag. Then it was time for me to go. We shared big bear hugs all around and said our good-byes.

The little church traveled back to the US in my suitcase. It has a place of honor in a room where I keep all of the gifts which are given in love and friendship, little bits of El Salvador to help me remember friends and family when we are far away from one another.

Off the Beaten Path: Kidnapped for Fun

2011-05-07T20:53:00.009-05:00

One day, a few of the female leaders of the Salvadoran Lutheran Church and their one male accomplice kidnapped me and took me up the side of the volcano. I had been working pretty hard for a couple of weeks, and so had they, and it was so very hot in the city. The ladies had hatched a plan and easily convinced a certain friendly pastor to be their driver, and so one afternoon we found ourselves driving up the side of El Boqueron.

The air got cooler and cooler as we went up and up. We laughed and told stories and admired the scenery along the way. We turned off at Cafe Miranda. "Hey, I always wanted to go here!" I said.

It's true. I had been up to the park at the top of El Boqueron several times, and en route had passed by the signs for Cafe Miranda, rumored to be a beautiful place, but the signs always had said "closed." The kidnapping day was my lucky day!

We stepped out of the car into the cool and breezy air. In front of us lay a beautiful complex of white buildings and gardens. We walked through a courtyard and into a a large building, one of the original coffee plantation structures which has been converted into a coffee museum. The first room was the original kitchen where the food was prepared for all of the plantation workers. Two long rows of grinding stones stand where women once ground corn to make giant tortillas known as "chengas." In the center of the room is the large oven where comals or cooking griddles once held the tortillas. One end of the room has big pots used for cooking beans. Each day the workers would each typically receive a chenga with a scoop of beans and some salt. The other museum rooms contain artifacts from the oldest coffee plantation in El Salvador, including equipment from the early 1900's.

After poking around a bit and reading the signs (available in English), we went out onto the terrace to enjoy the afternoon breeze and the beautiful scenery. We ordered wonderful iced coffees (with bunches of whipped cream!) and an assortment of delicious appetizers. The fried yucca was amazing, as were the mini-pupusas. As the afternoon turned cooler, we ordered hot chocolate and talked about our dreams for the future of our churches. We lingered until the sun lowered in the sky and we became too chilly. On our way out, we noticed that the compound includes small cabins where guests can stay. Some day, this would be a lovely place for a small delegation to stay or for a little retreat. It had been a beautiful afternoon, the best "kidnap" I have ever had.

Friendship and Love

2011-04-26T19:15:00.005-05:00

A new friend request came via Facebook. At first, I did not recognize the name, so I ignored the request. Some weeks later, when I was looking through a trip journal and some photos, I had an "ah-ha" moment and put name to face and thought how kind it was of this new friend to remember me. I hit "accept" and had a new Facebook friend in El Salvador -- one of my first.

My friend is very thoughtful. I receive lots of little email encouragements from her and, not just the standard ones which get forwarded on between large lists of e-friends, but personally crafted messages filled with references to the few times we have been together. We share little bits of news with each other about family and friends. When her sister had a baby, I sent a soft yellow blanket.

During this year's holistic healing event, my friend came for a medical check-up, and she brought her mom and brother for check-ups too. Her mom needed a special medicine which we did not have but which were able to purchase for her at a nearby pharmacy. For the next few days, every time my friend's path crossed mine (which happened now and then because she works in the Salvadoran Lutheran Church offices), she made a special effort to thank me and the team because the medicine was working and everyone in her family was doing well...

El Dia de Amor y Amistad - Valentine's Day - fell at the end of the healing event this year. Early in the morning my friend found me and gave me a gold office envelope with my name written on it. She giggled and apologized for the wrapping job. Inside was a cute wooden turtle for my desk at home.

The night before, the church office staff and Lutheran guest house staff and family members and the few of us who were still there as guests all put our names into a hat to draw for amigos secretos - secret friends. There was a little bit of name-trading so that we North Americans did not end up with one another, and in the end, of course, I had the name of my special friend. I put a few surprises into a pretty pink and red bag.

We sat down to a mid-afternoon treat at a big long table on the porch of the guest house. We had coffee and delicious pasteles (little deep-friend meat pies) with curtido. Under the table and behind backs were hidden bags and packages with little presents for our amigos secretos. The person who chose my name gave me an adorable homemade blouse and some seed earrings. She was so happy that I liked the shirt! Then it was my turn to share a gift with my secret friend - who was so surprised and thrilled to know that I had chosen her name and that we were not only amigas, but amigas secretas.

When we had been out in our sister church community in past years, we celebrated Valentine's Day with secret friends and a party. I had no idea that this was a tradition which is celebrated throughout El Salvador. Anyone who is present in the community, whether the community is made up of family, friends, office workers or a congregation, during the week of Valentine's Day is welcome to share in the fun. It's a great way for kids and adults, old friends and new friends to have simple fun together, not only to be linked together on one day, but perhaps for years -- because amigos secretos share much more than friendship, they share love.

Off the Beaten Path: Unexpected Surprises

2011-04-19T14:59:00.004-05:00

A couple of free hours...what to do...the guide book says there is a Natural History Museum not too far away...let's go!

We found our way through a mostly residential neighborhood to a tucked-away park. The book said we would have to walk through the park to get to the museum, so we went to the park entrance, paid our 20 cents each, and we were off on our latest adventure.

Immediately we were faced with a decision: the high road, or the low road. We took the high road and when a middle path appeared, we chose that one. Surprise number one: the cool shaded paths paralleled one another on the side of a steep hill, so the choice of path was inconsequential because a look down the hill from any one of them offered a view into a stadium with a bike track. A cycling team was practicing, the coaches setting the pace and calling out instructions. It was so unexpected and an opportunity for us to wonder if El Salvador has an Olympic cycling team.

After watching the cyclists for a while, we continued on our path, and soon encountered surprise number two: slides! We wandered from one playground to another, each space filled with colorful equipment for kids and surrounded by beautiful flowers and greenery, but nothing was as impressive as the slides. Using the hilly terrain, the slides were built in sets of two or three, so that each person has his or her own "channel." They are constructed of molded concrete and finished with a slippery metal surface so that the sliders are tempted to "hit the breaks" by running their shoes along the sides of the channels. These slides beckoned for some fun, and with no kids in sight, we just had to answer the call. Three women, wearing their "we're going to church later clothes", climbed the stairs and swooshed down a big straight slide. "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" they cried! "Let's do it again!"

Further into the park we found the most excellent, super long curvy slide. This required climbing stairs and a ladder, one person climbing up a little higher into a small tower and then sliding out from there to meet up with the other slider. Since I was the little one, the tower climb was all mine. Coming out from way up high required a bit of extra dare-devilness, and it was all worth it!

After we had sufficiently entertained the gardeners, we brushed off our dusty backsides, we continued on our way, crossing bridges and crouching in tunnels until we finally arrived at...the museum! Yes, at the far end of this magnificent children's park you will really find surprise number three: the Natural History Museum.

It is a small building, with just a handful of rooms which tell the story of the rocks and fossil finds in El Salvador. Luckily one member of our group happened to be an archeology/anthropology expert, and so we had an excellent tour. The skeletal fossils of enormous mammals is quite impressive, even if the display and preservation methods are not.

We lingered in the museum for a while and then wandered out to surprise number four: a well-labeled garden filled with medicinal plants. Our primary purpose that week was not necessarily to go sliding in our church clothes, but to coordinate a holistic Mission of Healing, and the plant garden was a treasure trove of information for a project which we are working on with one of the Salvadoran healers. We enjoyed the garden for as long as we could, and then walked back toward the park entrance. We said good-bye to the gardeners and greeted a few families who were arriving at the park for their own couple of hours of fun. As we passed by the bike track, we noticed that the team had gone and children were out on the track to practice their biking skills.

It was a morning full of surprises, and a couple of life lessons:
1. Guide books are helpful.
2. Holistic healing should always include an activity which calls forth a shout of "Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!"

Tales of Greasy and Grubby: La Puerta Automática

2011-04-16T22:57:00.003-05:00

Of course by now it is clear that Greasy and Grubby are the best of friends, and that Julia, who has been often separated from Greasy and Grubby by barriers of language and distance, is precious to them both and they to her.

This friendship is a mystery. A miracle. A gift from God. It is rooted in hugs, and laughter, and tears and stories and the stuff of life that three women whisper about in a hot and tiny room late into the night.

One of the all-time favorite stories that these three share is the story of "La Puerta Automática" - "The Automatic Door."

Grubby had a video camera. It was back when video cameras were big and clunky, and making a movie was a seriously public spectacle because there was no chance of filming anything surreptitiously. "Can we make a movie about your house?" Greasy boldly asked. "We can use it to teach the children in Sunday School about a typical house in El Salvador." It was also a good way to fill some time on a sweaty afternoon when the conversation was lagging due to Grubby's complete lack of Spanish skills and Greasy's mental exhaustion from cleaning the rust off of her high school Spanish...

Grubby turns on the camera. Julia begins to show us her home: the living room with the old hunk of foam on a metal frame for a sofa and metal chairs, some with crimson pads and some with boards for seats; the bedroom with bunk beds stacked with papers and twin beds made from cardboard on metal wires with pads on top where Greasy and Grubby slept. In front of the camera, Julia is a natural, her inner Vanna White emerging as she gestures grandly toward this and that while giving detailed descriptions. As she emerges from the bedroom, Julia pulls the big hunk of cardboard which separates the bedroom from the living room across the opening between the furniture and proudly introduces her "puerta automática." We stifle giggles behind the camera, as does Julia while she describes the deluxe features of the puerta automática in fine info-mercial style.

Suddenly Julia remembers something she has to show us in the bedroom -- the ventana automática! This is the automatic window shutter which is made from a large square board which is held up by a hunk of telephone pole, wedged between the twin beds at a 45 degree angle to the wall. That very morning, Greasy and Grubby had been startled by a dinner-plate-size scorpion which had crawled out from behind the ventana automática as it was being opened.

After demonstrating the closing and opening of the window, Julia clasps her hands and thanks the audience. A voice off camera (her husband) jokingly says, "What about the china cabinet?"

Julia leads the camera over to behind the house door and moves it aside to reveal the kitchen. The old 1950's style table is held up by an odd wooden leg and covered with plastic buckets, pots and a propane burner. The china cabinet is a wire and plastic rack which is filled with a colorful assortment of china and plastic dishes. Now, the tour is complete.

Grubby turned off the camera. Everyone started laughing with Julia about the puerta automática. This was Julia's way of really breaking the ice, of letting down her guard and poking a little fun at her own situation, of sharing with us her wit and her spunk.

All these years later, if one of us pops a board onto an overturned bucket to make a seat, we brilliantly announce, "la silla automática" and think back to the first time in which we appreciated God's gift of humor and friendship together.

Just Click: Fifteen Minutes in Juayua

2011-04-10T20:46:00.011-05:00

Sometimes a gracious delegation will let me tag along for a ride. This is a great way for me to get to where I need to be with a little extra fun and friendship along the way. In this way, I recently took an unexpected ride along the Ruta de las Flores. After the rainy months, this scenic drive between Sonsonate and Santa Ana is lined with flowers of all kinds, but this excursion was mysteriously (to me, anyway) planned during the dry time. The group was pretty tired of riding in the bus but remained in good humor, entertaining themselves with card games, music, jokes and conversation. Me, I got out my camera, cracked the bus window and started clicking away...we stopped for fifteen minutes in Juayua, which gave me a chance to click off a few photos from outside the bus. No flowers during this visit, but still plenty of interesting sites to catch my fancy.

Another Antonio

2011-04-04T10:15:00.005-05:00

There are some stories which are meant to be told. Told not often, not casually, but told when the time is right.

The time seems right to tell this story. This is the story of Antonio.

Antonio was brought to us by his family. He arrived in a wheelchair, bandages around one ankle and foot, an IV-port still in his arm, evidence to support the family's concern that he left the hospital without permission.

The Mission of Healing team was set up that year in the Salvadoran Lutheran Church clinic - a very basic operation in a large, war-worn building. Bus-loads of patients were brought in from outlying communities to pass through our system of holistic care. Antonio had heard about the mission from Lutheran neighbors in El Paisnal, and he had faith that we could do something for him which the hospital doctors could not.

The triage nurses took Antonio's vitals and history. He worked in construction and was a strong man. He had been on a job and injured his foot. He was in his fifties. He suffered from diabetes. The pharmacy never had any insulin. His foot injury became infected. The doctors said they had to cut it off. He refused. He could not work to support his family without a foot. Could we help?

One of the nurses lovingly began to unwrap Antonio's foot. The smell of rotting flesh seeped into the air. "Breathe through your mouth, not your nose," she thought to herself, as she fought against the urge to gag. As the foot was revealed, the gangrene exposed, the nurse gently called over to our nurse practitioner "la Doctora." La Doctora studied Antonio's foot, explaining the gravity of the infection to Antonio and his family, and quietly sent someone to go and get a pastor.

The nurse gently cleaned the wound, explaining to Antonio's wife that she could cleanse the foot with boiled water and should change the dressing to keep it as clean as possible. She bundled up a bag of clean dressings, offering the best she could for a hopeless situation.

Pastor Santiago had been working in the spiritual healing center up on the second floor. He came downstairs to triage and was shocked to see his old friend Antonio, seated in a wheel chair, in danger of losing not only his foot, but his life. "Would you like to go to the spiritual center to pray?" the pastor asked.

"Yes," said Antonio. Antonio was wheeled over to the bottom of the stairs. Four men grasped the four corners of his chair and carefully lifted Antonio up to the second floor so he could be taken to the healing cross for a time of prayer. On the first floor there was a moment of recognition that the Gospel was coming to life before our eyes.

Then some people^* came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. And when they could not bring him to Jesus because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him; and after having dug through it, they let down the mat on which the paralytic lay. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, "Son, your sins are forgiven." Mark 2

The cross of healing was a plain wooden cross, painted white. People were invited to write on the cross, to place their burdens, their sins, their pains, their needs for healing in body, mind, spirit and relationships into God's hands through the cross of Jesus. Antonio and Pastor Santiago prayed, at at some moment, Antonio placed his life into God's hands, "I am ready to be in your kingdom, where my body will be whole." He placed his words, his burden, his body onto the cross. Then he went home with his family.

It was late morning when Antonio came to us. In a strange juxtaposition of experiences the healing team found itself eating lunch at a nearby Pizza Hut. We sat there, looking at pizza, numb. We should pray for Antonio. What should we pray for Antonio? Healing? Amputation? A quick and peaceful death? Antonio had turned his life over to God. We had to do that too. Our prayers for Antonio were simple and constant. At Pizza Hut, throughout the afternoon and the final days of the mission, on the plane and back in our homes, "Antonio." We just prayed "Antonio," lifting his name up into the air for God to catch it and to do whatever it is God would do.

A few weeks after our return home, an email arrived. I called Greasy - or she called me - but as soon as the email hit the Inbox we were on the phone with each other, crying, laughing, celebrating...

The email was from Pastor Santiago, who had received word from the Lutheran pastor in El Paisnal, that on the previous Sunday Antonio had walked to church and walked into church proclaiming that God had made a miracle! He was healed! He had placed his life into God's hands and he was healed!

This was a story which had to be told. We told it first in our Sunday School classes. We acted out the story of Jesus healing the paralyzed man and shared the story of Antonio, hoping to grow in the children the strong belief that in God all things are possible and miracles really happen. Children made bracelets with beads on them - one prayer bead for each special person in their lives and one prayer bead for Antonio.

A few months later, I was invited to El Paisnal to visit with Antonio. He had heard about the children in our Sunday School who were praying for him, and he wanted me to make a video testimony for them so that they could see with their own eyes that God really does make miracles happen. By this time, the diabetes had taken Antonio's eyesight, but that did not diminish his spirit for the work that God had given him - to testify to the healing power of God who is the Great Physician. You can watch the video online.

For Greasy and Grubby, the experience of Antonio's miracle brought back memories of another Antonio. These two Antonios have made their marks on our lives, serving for us and for all who will listen, as living testimonies to the healing power of God and the ways in which God works to bring us together to work, love, pray and witness.

Before we were secret friends...

2011-04-01T14:47:00.005-05:00

So, there is a bit of a back story about my amiga secreta.

About three years before the big secret friend party, there was a birthday party. And before the birthday party, there was time spent in Josefina's home.

My first stay at Josefina's home was during a Greasy and Grubby adventure. Back a few years, when Greasy and I were called by God to be a part of a spiritual movement in our sister community, when we showed up in El Salvador with the faith and promise that God would provide, Josefina and her four-generation family provided. They provided us with their beds, their food, their candlelight, their late-night conversation and their love -- all in a warm, tiny, dirt-floored, mouse-friendly home.

One night there were a birthday cake and mariachis and a surprise party for Josefina's daughter. After a short time of Greasy and Grubby playing with the mariachis, it was time to listen, and Josefina pulled me onto her lap and held on tight. This was my spot for the rest of the night.

So when the time for secret friend week came along, I chose Josefina. But really, as Greasy reminded me yesterday, Josefina chose me.

Amiga Secreta

2011-04-01T12:21:00.001-05:00

Today is the one year anniversary of Linda's El Salvador Blog. When I settled in to write this anniversary post, it didn't take me long to decide on a story to share.

This is the story of my first secret friend.

It was the week before Valentine's Day. We were all staying in our sister church community for the annual Mission of Healing. We were a small group back then - a few nurses, a nurse practitioner, a lay pharmacist and a couple of people to teach the kids about healthy teeth. At the start of the week during Sunday worship we were all invited to put our names into a little hat. Then each person drew out a name. My turn came around and I pulled out a tiny slip of paper with a name on it, the name of my amiga secreta, Josefina. What a special surprise! I loved Josefina, really, like a grandma, and she loved me back with those big long hugs and face squeezes that only grandmas can get away with.

Because we did not know anything about this community tradition of secret friends ahead of time, we rummaged through our suitcases to find anything we could to make valentine cards or create little gifts for our friends. Luckily I always travel with bits of colored paper, tape, markers and a scented candle or two, so that each day I was able to sneak over to Josefina's house and stick a small surprise insider her door when she wasn't looking -- always signed "from your amiga secreta."

Each of our group had a secret friend, and each of us was a secret friend to someone else. So every now and then a mysterious little note would appear on top of my backpack or on my pillow, from my amigo secreto (this was a clue that the friend who chose me was a boy).

All of the secret amigos and amigas waited with great anticipation for the Big Reveal, when everyone would learn the identity of his or her secret friend and we would all have a great big Valentine's Day party together. When evening of the Dia de Amor y Amistad (the Day of Love and Friendship, or Valentine's Day) arrived, my name was called by the the boy who had chosen me, Edwin! We hugged and his mom gave me a gift bag with 4 glasses of various designs, a snow globe with a purple flower inside and a brightly colored sugar bowl with a little bunny on the lid. I still use that sugar bowl at Easter time and I drink from the glasses whenever I stay at the Lutheran guest house.

Then it was my turn to call my amiga secreta, "Josefina!" I think I had prepared a little gift bag with my photo album and flashlight inside. I don't really remember. What I do remember is that she shuffled over in her little slippers, with her face smiling brightly, and she grabbed my face and gave me a big kiss. She pulled me down onto the bench beside her and would not let go for the rest of the night.

Each year, when we happened to be in our sister community for el Dia de Amistad y Amor, I figured out a way to end up with Josefina as my amiga secreta. Throughout the year, whenever we saw one another after a little time apart, we would smile and hug each other saying, "Aaaahhh, mi amiga secreta."

Last year, Josefina was very sick. On Valentine's Day we visited her home, where she lay in her bed with an infection which was slowly moving from a blackened foot through her body. I sat down by her bed and took her hand and whispered, "It's your amiga secreta." She smiled. We sang and prayed and hugged for the last time. A few weeks later, Josefina went to live with Jesus.

Some day it will be my time to go and live with Jesus. I imagine the welcoming committee will include my dad, my grandmas and grandpas, and a little lady who will be holding out her arms and greeting me with, "Aaaahhhh, mi amiga secreta!" and a big squeeze.

The Right to Eat

2011-03-26T08:17:00.007-05:00

The vegetable lady is at the door with her granddaughter. She comes each day. Today the onions are already gone, but she does have 2 nice cucumbers and a tomato. Julia gives her a couple of dimes and off she goes to pick up an older grandchild from school. Earlier in the day, Julia had acquired a bunch of pitos from a local tree. Pitos are flower buds, like little pods, and you harvest them by cutting bundles of small branches from the tree. Today's lunch will be torta de pito.

We sit down together to clean the pitos. Pull the buds off of the branches, pull the protruding stamens out of the flowers, toss the unused parts onto the dirt for the chickens. We chat and struggle to keep our eyes open in the oppressive midday heat. I wonder who first thought to eat these skinny flower pods which taste a lot like green beans.

Julia knows how to make a lot of different foods from leaves, pods, flowers and fruits which grow in the countryside. Soon it is time to make the tortas: chopped onion, chopped pitos, chopped tomato, egg, shredded meat and probably some other secrets go into the bowl and with a little hand mixing and forming, the tortas (like meatballs) are ready to go into the frying pan. Pretty soon we are sitting at the table together, enjoying the most delicious meatball tortas with tomato gravy and tortillas.

Then it is time to feed the dogs. Julia grabs the a big orange plastic bowl and reaches into the plastic food container which she keeps in the middle of the table (so the animals cannot reach it) and pushes aside an egg and half an onion to pull out the last of the chorizo.

Two days before, we had gone to the little corner store by the church before walking Julia's grandson to school. That was when we bought the chorizo. I wondered what new recipe Julia would be making with the chorizo. This was not something she had used in cooking during our many times together. On that day, after we had eaten dinner, she pulled out the big blue plastic bowl and filled it with broken up tortillas, some leftovers and some still-warm coffee water she had heated on the stove. She pulled out the little tube of chorizo and squeezed about a third of it into the bowl. With her hands she mushed it all up, squeezing the water and chorizo and leftovers into the tortillas.

"Some people do not take the time to feed their dogs. They say they don't have enough food. But I believe that all of God's creatures have an equal right to eat, don't they?" She waited for my answer.

Julia put the smaller share of freshly made dog food into a bowl for Pirate, her male watch dog. The big orange bowl went to Princess, the mama dog who is nursing a new litter of puppies. Julia said she will give the puppies away as presents to people who will love them.

I have been with Julia during times when the dogs were fed the only food available: tortillas. During the times when there is more food, when she can buy a little chorizo, Julia often feeds the dogs plain tortillas so that "they don't become accustomed to only rich food and can survive as dogs who live in poverty."

God's Little Boys

2011-03-22T16:25:00.007-05:00

Each Mission of Healing begins with a healing worship - a time of baptism, first communion, confirmation and thanksgiving in anticipation of the week of healing to come. In anticipation of this special week, sometimes parents have asked to have their small babies or children baptized. Sometimes older children or teens have asked to receive their first communion and to be confirmed. Each year, the pastor and the community prepare for this special day of celebration and spiritual healing.

This year babies, elementary school students, younger teens, and older teens were welcomed into a new place in their faith journeys...all boys. A couple of groups of friends; a couple of groups of brothers. Each one had managed to find a white shirt of some kind. One little guy had a decorated candle, and one had white gloves and fancy epaulets on his shirt.

The babies were baptized first. One is a miracle baby, whose mom found out that she was pregnant with him just a few days after her oldest son was murdered by carjackers. The other, a treasured blessing and son of one of the doctors who helps every year with the Mission of Healing.

The next to approach the font, one by one, were a family of three brothers. The oldest one wrote these words in a recent letter:

It was a very joyful day in our family, and now we are new people. Now I feel more committed with the church and I try to be better each day. On that Sunday, after worship, we had the opportunity to get together with the delegation that was visiting us. Now I feel happy to have had this great passage in my life and now I am happy to have my new objective to study more and participate more in the activities of the community, guided by our appreciated pastor.

And then a special family was invited forward. The pastor explained that he had been working with the parents and their son who has special needs. I watched as a shy boy came forward; behind him walked his little brother, all smiles. The little brother walked slowly, leading his mom and dad, both of whom are blind.

Where had they come from, this blind couple who had arrived so unexpectedly, just as they had arrived for dinner in the church eleven years ago? Their son, Walter, was baptized, gazing up wide-eyed and listening carefully to the pastor's words. His little brother looked on with a huge and happy grin. Mom and Dad stood close by, listening.

Walter and his parents stood beside the other families as each boy received light for his candle and salt on his tongue and the charge to be a light for the world and salt for the earth.

Walter and his family went back to their seats, and worship continued with several confirmations, Holy Communion and prayers. After worship, I looked for Walter and his family, but they had gone. As mysteriously as they had come, they had gone.

What Epiphany has to do with President Obama

2011-03-17T07:59:00.003-05:00

As we were driving past the San Salvador hotel where President Obama will be staying later this month, our driver said that during the visit, all these streets would be closed. "They're really cleaning up this area and increasing the security. Obama will not get to be close to the people."

We passed by a gentleman who was crossing the street in his wheelchair, and our driver said, "Look at this wheelchair. It is the man's invention. See, he can use it like a bicycle with his hands. People need to see this." Beneath this comment was the heartfelt desire that President Obama and others get to see not only a beautiful street, but the beautiful people of El Salvador.

Earlier in the week, Bishop Gomez had reminded us that we were in the season of Epiphany. This is the time when we are reminded of the Magi, who sought to find the new king who had been born. They first traveled to Jerusalem to speak with King Herod, and the result was the slaughter of innocent babies. They then traveled to Bethlehem, and among the common people they found the child Jesus. "This is a sign for President Obama," stated the Bishop. "When those with wisdom and power speak only with those in power, there is suffering. When those with wisdom and power speak with the people, there is Jesus."

Fellow blogger, Tim, posted a story today which speaks to the hope that President Obama will speak with the people. Perhaps he will. Perhaps he will meet Jesus.

Off the Beaten Path: Museo de Arte

2011-03-14T09:09:00.008-05:00

We were trying to get to the Museum of Word and Image. We had a map. We explained the directions. But our driver on that day was just one of those guys who would rather ask for guidance from the kind gentlemen on the street than listen to the ladies beside him with maps and directions.

So, when our delegation arrived at the Museo del Arte we decided to embrace the moment and enjoy the art. We were welcomed into the museum with a blast of cool air, crisp white walls, and quiet. The first gallery space was filled with the blue of indigo and the white of cotton, the juxtaposed beauty of a resurrected craft and the history of agricultural abuse of land and people.

The group dispersed, each individual pausing at different moments, capturing different memories in their cameras, pondering images which both calmed and troubled.

I am certain that when we have compiled the photos from our entire group, the art museum experience will be well documented. As I look through my own photos, the images conjure up the thoughts I had as I walked through the cool and quiet galleries...

The god of corn - our first visit to El Salvador came at the time of the harvest, when every new friend welcomed me into her home with a steaming cup of atol de elote - since then I have read the histories and gathered images of the people of the corn; I looked at this little statue and could hear Julia's laughter and narration in my ears with flashback image of Julia with Bessy Marleni as they demonstrated how to make tamales, from the field to the molina to the pot for a little documentary that I made a few years ago...

A painting depicting agrarian reform done by Pedro Espinoza in 1935 - painted just 3 years after La Mantanza (the massacre of indigenous people and peasant farmers), this painting shows beautiful colors and rural life, with soldiers alongside the people...I thought it must have been the artist's dream; I thought about some of the small farming communities which had existed as cooperatives but are now struggling to find the right path between the rights of the community and the rights of individuals...

A comet-like, Sputnik-inspired sculpture - I thought about what a great inspiration this would be for the kids in our sister community, where there is enough trash in the pathways and on the hills to create a gallery of recycled sculptures...

A painting of two women - friends, maybe neighbors, pausing for a drink of water; in their hands they hold traditional bowls, perhaps made from morro shells. I thought about about my friend, Greasy.. that maybe in our hearts we are these two women...

Although the museum collection includes many pieces which depict struggle and suffering, these images do not appear in my collection. That day, for me, was a day of refreshment, and my eyes and my mind were seeking images of peace and beauty.

The museum has a web site with a video that might inspire you to visit, to walk through the galleries, and to have your own day of pondering ...

The Rains Came Down...

2011-03-07T14:46:00.006-06:00

About a year ago, a little group of us visited a community named Guadalupe, which had suffered greatly in the aftermath of tropical storm Ida. I have written a couple of stories about this community which lies near the San Vicente volcano, and every now and then I hear about their continued struggle for permanent housing and recovery.

To get to Guadalupe, we pass through the town of San Vicente, which had also sustained damage during that November 2009 storm when a flood of water came tearing down the Accihuapa River, damaging homes and everything else along the banks and nearly taking out the bridge which carries traffic over the river and into town.

A couple of weeks ago we had the opportunity to drive through San Vicente on our way to Usulutan. The bridge is still under repair, and it was good to see that big earth-moving equipment was working near the water's edge. I am not sure what the restoration project will bring about, but it was good to see that some kind of plan was being implemented. The damaged homes and debris had all been removed, and the diggers appeared to be making a wider channel for the water. I snapped a couple of photos and felt hopeful that the next rainy season would not bring destruction and loss of life to the people along this part of the river.

A few days after that visit, something very unexpected occurred. It rained. In San Salvador, in February, it rained. We could smell it coming as we drove through Apopa, then came the thunder and lightning, and students were caught unprepared as the rain tumbled down and soaked them to the skin. Buses created waves which over-topped the concrete barriers between lanes of opposing traffic. Cars stopped as they were confronted by lakes too deep to cross.

The next day, everyone was talking about it. One woman in our sister community with a flair for the dramatic, acted out the situation in her home, "The rain came so fast and our little house is down low and the neighbors are high and so the water came running through the house and the chickens were creating a great noise and it was windy and I thought the roof would blow off and the children were screaming and I thought, 'O Dios mio, it's a hurricane!' But after fifteen or twenty minutes it was over and praise the Lord we were fine."

Later, I bumped into one of the youth group leaders. She had a terrible cold. "The rain," she said. She had been caught at the bus stop in her school uniform, unprepared.

After the tales of the storm were told, two words followed: climate change. "The earth is changing. The plants are changing. We have to change too," said an old farmer friend.

March is typically El Salvador's driest month. Maybe the February rains were a freak occurrence. The people say that winter has come already. It is time to prepare for the rains.

And what about the big machines in the river bed in San Vicente, or the recovery plans in the community of Guadalupe, or the repairs to the dikes near Puerto Parada? It is hard not to worry about so many for whom the words "climate change" are more than just words of concern for future generations but are words which bring fear and loss right now.

A little something special between friends...

2011-02-28T11:23:00.004-06:00

Yesterday I had the privilege of participating in our sister church's strategic planning meeting. About 25 church leaders gathered to create ministry plans for all of the different aspects of church life. The church leaders are divided into commissions: Diaconia (service - which includes helping with the worship service, cleaning the church and outreach); Women & Family; Men; Youth; and a new commission for Madres Jovenes. Each group developed objectives and strategies with a ten-year timeline into the future.

The goals set forth were realistic and impressive. What especially caught my interest were the men's goals. One of their areas of interest is community nutrition. They joked around a bit that their program needed to start immediately with the nutrition of the leader group (a call to eat lunch!), and then continued with plans for family gardens which could grow into a community movement to grow healthy food. This idea is especially fantastic since most families have no land. The idea is to grow tomato plants in little corners around the homes, to grow herbs and greens in pots, to make use of whatever soil and light and water they can. The men also had ideas for a community health center and a center for children under age 5 which would include a daycare.

After the commissions shared their ideas with the whole group, it finally was time for lunch. Earlier in the week the women had asked me what kind of food would be good. We thought for a while, and then I suggested pupusas. "Pupusas?" they asked...for lunch? Is that OK? Apparently pupusas are more of a supper thing, but I could eat them all day any day! The men were right to be calling for lunch because everyone was so hungry and the small of the hot, cheesy pupusas was calling to all of us.

When I was handed my plate of pupusas, I noticed that mine were a little bigger than those of everyone around me. When I broke into one, I realized that I had pupusas con queso y laroco!! This is my favorite kind of pupusa, and my friends Julia and Sonia had arranged this little surprise. There was no fanfare or anything, just a little smile when I looked over and they knew that I knew that a special effort had been made. This was the most touching moment of the day...friends organizing a little special secret. What a great way to end the month of amor and amistad!

Children Come First

2011-02-24T23:10:00.005-06:00

We traveled just northeast of Usulatan and took a dusty drive up to the simple red brick church. The children of the community greeted us one by one with a well-practiced "hello, hello hello..." and a handshake. There were so many children! It was an amazingly warm welcome.

The leaders of the church shared stories about what they do and the history of the community. We asked and answered questions. It was a fun and friendly exchange. Then it was time for lunch. The people of the community had worked together to provide meat, rice, tortillas, salad and Salva Cola for everyone. Often during a first visit, the guests are seated first and eat together at a table while the hosts stand aside, waiting to eat last or to eat the leftovers. Yet in this place, the church leaders announced that at this church, children come first. This was awesome! Many in this particular group work in urban churches in which this is a core value: children come first!

The adults had plenty of time to chat and get to know each other while eighty or more children lined up and received their lunch. Then the adults received their food, with all of us mixed up in line like family. We finished lunch and shared some spontaneous songs in Spanish and English, and some very cute photo moments.

It was during this casual time near the end of our visit that I got to know the woman in the yellow dress. It actually was her little girl who had been quietly carrying around a plastic bowl, sitting beside us and giving an occasional hug who opened the door for conversation. I asked if the little one was the woman's daughter, and the woman made some vocal sounds and nodded her head, yes. I asked how old the little one was and the mom held up three fingers. Using her own form of sign language, Mom communicated that she was a single mom, living with her only child. Her house is right next to the church. The little girl was a good help around the house. She could already make tortillas and help with the laundry.

I don't know Mom's name. I don't know the little one's name -- this little one who is so quiet because she lives in a quiet home, where communication happens with hands and smiles and hugs.

As the closing prayer was about to begin, I watched as the little girl dumped her two small towels out of the plastic bowl she was holding. She dipped the bowl over the side of the chair, and put the towels back in. Carefully lifting one towel up and down, up and down, then ringing the pretend water from it, she picked up the other towel and did the same. All this time, she had been carrying her laundry. She was just as Mom had described her - a good little helper.

Praying for a Miracle

2011-02-21T20:51:00.005-06:00

Today I woke up with a very strong feeling.

We ate breakfast and went to Resurrection church, the Bishop's church, for the Monday morning devotional. Pastors gathered and greetings were shared. The text for the day was the story of Jesus healing a boy who was possessed by a demon - a healing which was initiated by the strong faith of the boy's father.

I still had that strong feeling. I shared with our sister church pastor that I had awakened with the idea that we should go to the children's hospital, Benjamin Bloom, to check on the little boy from our sister community who was there. "We should go," he said.

We navigated our way to Bloom through a labyrinth of traffic and vendors. As I looked around at the creepy clown with red pants and balloon animals, the pick-up with an old tarp thrown over it as a display space for a big pile of stuffed animals, and the guy thrusting sandals toward us for $6 a pair, I could not imagine being a parent with a sick child having to navigate through the noise and craziness.

As we were nearing the hospital, from somewhere across the street Maria emerged, as if by magic. She quietly walked toward us with no look of surprise, as if she had been expecting to meet us here all along. Her son, Douglas Isaac, is in the hospital. His little four year old lungs are struggling to fight tuberculosis. He is breathing with the help of a respirator.

Maria walked us to the gate. The guard would not let us in until 1:00 pm when visitors can enter. Even then we will need special permission.

Maria gets up early, sends her older children to school and takes several buses each day to get to the hospital by 12:25 pm so that she can get in line to visit her son in the critical care unit.

We came back at 1:00 pm and the guard remembered us and let us in. Maria walked us up the stairs to the second floor and we all sat down in a waiting area. Maria knows the protocol and has made some friends among the other parents who perform this daily ritual. We waited our turn to go through the door, and then stood in the next line to get into the critical care unit. The guard gave a stern speech about only mothers and fathers being allowed to visit, and only if they have cards to get in.

I visited this area of the hospital once before with a group of medical professionals from the US who were in El Salvador for a Mission of Healing. The sick children are located in beds behind a glass wall. As visiting dignitaries we were allowed to come in and to view the children through the glass. All of the children were crying for their moms. They were hooked up to various types of equipment, much of it more than 20 years old. The doctors were kind and caring and doing their best with the resources they had.

I kept thinking about my own experiences as a mom with a sick child in a US hospital. It seems so wrong to restrict visits. It seems like the children who are so sick should have a mommy or daddy close by. It seems like parents who are so worried should have more access to their children. Yet, the care and safety of the children comes first and in a country with lots of dirt and lots of germs, maybe the restrictions have to be enforced.

Maria went in. After a while she peeked out and said that the doctor would let someone else in, in place of her husband. Prayers from the hallway united with prayers from the US and prayers from the pastor. I think it would be a good time for God to make a miracle at the request of a mother in great pain but with greater faith. Hugging and crying, Maria quietly testified to the power of God.

Tonight, maybe there will be a miracle. Or tonight, maybe a little boy will go to live with Jesus.

Addition to this story...
That night, the miracle was that Isaac lived. He lived long enough for his mom and dad and the doctors to try all that could be tried, and for his parents to be at peace with the reality that human healers could do no more. A few days ago, we received this message:

When you were in our country, you accompanied us in various areas, many of joy and others of sadness....and so God gave you the opportunity to be with Maria, visiting in the Hospital Bloom the little Isaac from the community...a 4 year old angel who built a chain of unity and strength....Thanks, friend, for dedicating a time for him. Today the little angel is already in heaven; he was called by the creator and his funeral was yesterday.

When Pastor Santiago had gone in to visit Isaac, he said that he couldn't help himself and he started to cry. When Isaac saw the pastor cry, little tears trickled down his cheeks too. This was the only way Isaac could communicate...his body just simply saying "we are sad."

"He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away."
Rev. 21

With eyes of faith, we can see Isaac now, breathing well, with no tears in his eyes, sitting beside his brother Jesus, and looking forward to the time when he can again be with his parents and his pastor and say "we are happy."

Just Another Day...

2011-02-19T00:12:00.005-06:00

I wake up to a great ruckus of rooster crows and dogs barking. The near-full moon has confused the creatures of the community into chattering back and forth all night long, but the additional action of a pre-dawn departure of the man of the house has put them over the top. Julia has to get up too, having forgotten to wash her husband's uniform until late in the previous day and still needing to put the iron to it. The loud screech of the chain-link gate, the grinding of the ancient pick-up engine and the final slam of the metal house door wake up the kitten and the five-year old, who also add to the pre-dawn chatter.

Lights out. Back to sleep. The house is still hot from yesterday's sun, the metal roof and block walls retain the heat even though the night air is chilly. It would be so much better if we could open a window, but it is just not safe enough.

I often lay awake for long periods of time when sleeping out in our sister community. Not this morning. By the time we wake again, it is past time to get going. We put on clean clothes. Julia's grandson wiggles his feet into clean white socks and the blue shorts and checked shirt that all of the kindergarten children wear. Julia gets breakfast while the little guy bites on his shoelaces to try to release a stubborn knot. He lets me help him get the knot out and then we hunt for the shoe brush so he can shine his shoes. This happens every day; the shoes need to last for a year and the dusty terrain is hard on them.

We sit down for breakfast. We pray the kindergarten prayer, listening to our expert singer and following his motions. The song ends..."We give thanks for this food and ask God to bless it and to bless those who do not have any food. God bless Mommy and Daddy and my brother. Amen. Buen provecho."

Today's breakfast is a sweet cake made from plantains. Lucia brought it over last night as a special gift in honor of my presence in the community. The cake is sweet and moist with a sugary plantain topping. Julia pours warm water into powdered milk and her grandson brings his clean bottle from the pila - a little plastic bottle that at one time had juice in it. A piece of cake goes into the sandwich box, the milk goes into the bottle, the lunch box is snapped shut and we are ready to go. We unlock the gate, sneak out so the dogs don't escape, relock the gate and walk down the hill to the school.

Normally, three little ones walk together with their grandmas, but today we are late because we overslept. Arriving late is not a big deal in the little school, at least for the kindergartners. The older kids are out for gym class and are learning to jump rope. I see one green jump rope with sparkly handles. The other ropes are made from random pieces of twine and rope of different shapes and sizes tied together.

Moms and Grandmas take turns cooking at the school. Each day the government provides 5 pounds of rice for 80 children. The parents are supposed to take turns bringing other items. Yesterday's pile included 5 tiny potatoes, 1 package of chicken flavor, 1 onion and a couple of tiny tomatoes. This was not going to feed 80 children. Julia and the other grandma-cook for the day talked it over and decided they needed to buy some carrots and other things to make a rice soup. This is typical of the grandmas, who have very little for their own families but somehow find a way to share with others. I headed off for some morning visits. They told me later that the soup was very good.

The mornings pass quickly and soon the little ones are ready to walk home. They gather at the concrete picnic table on the school grounds to eat their "refreshments" from their little lunch boxes. (This is after they have eaten the school food.) Then they walk home.

Julia's grandson has his afternoon routine. He pushes a big desk out into the yard and carefully takes papers out from the drawer. "La oficina esta abierta." The office is open. He carefully takes up his crayons and works to complete workbook pages from a homemade book left over from 4-year old kindergarten. He is very serious.

At about 3 pm, it is time to eat again. Something simple - an egg or some beans or a tortilla. Then, after the heat of the day diminishes a bit, the kids come out to play in the open space near the church. Eight or ten soldiers lean up against the little fence outside of the church, smiling at the kids, chatting on their cell phones, holding their weapons across their chests. It is safe to play while the soldiers are watching. The community is once again in a time of increased gang activity. As the sun goes down, everyone heads for home. A few couples pass by. Women come home from selling door to door or in the market. A few women who have factory jobs come home carrying their purses, $5.30 richer after 8 hours of work.

We sit out on the edge of the concrete steps outside of the gate. Julia says it is time to go in. The nearly full moon rises just enough so I can see it over the top of the dirt pile behind the church. The little guy cannot see it, so I take him by the hand and walk to the top of the dirt hill. I crouch down and whisper that the moon is made of green cheese. We laugh and enjoy a few moments whispering back and forth about the moon, the soldiers grin and then it is time to go inside and close the doors for the night.

Music in his Heart

2011-02-16T07:43:00.005-06:00

Don Francisco lives upstairs. Someone carried him up. Francisco cannot walk. Francisco cannot see. Francisco is 89 years old.

La Casa Esperanza is the homeless shelter which is run by the Salvadoran Lutheran Church. It is not an overnight shelter, but a place where many men, some women and young children come for a hot meal, access to bathing and laundry sinks, comfort, pastoral care, medicine, and work. There is a before and after school program for young children to help them with reading and basic skills. The woodworking shop is a place where men and women can learn, can work and do create lovely crosses and other artesenias which are sold to help support the shelter. Many of the clients are alcoholics, drug addicts and people who are living with AIDS. When the doors close for the evening, sleeping places are found in the doorways of nearby banks.

Don Francisco has no one to take care of him. He, and a few others, have been given permanent shelter by the mama of the house, Trinidad. Trini has a heart of rescue.

We remembered don Francisco from a year ago. He was disoriented and his room was bathed in urine. He is challenged by incontinence and the resources to care for him are few. As we four women climbed the stairs, we prepared ourselves to be sad. The light in the simple room was turned on for us. Francisco sat on his simple bed, surrounded by four bright orange walls and nothing more than a simple hand-made cross hanging over his bed. The walls were bright and so was don Francisco. He sat upright in his bed, and we greeted him with strong voices. I put my hand on his shoulder so that he knew that we were close. He talked a little bit about his health with our doctoras.

The Spirit moved us to sing. We sang out "Alabare" and after a few moments don Francisco was singing right along with us. His voice was strong and loud and soon he was harmonizing. His face shone like the sun with a grand smile and tears dripped from don Francisco's eyes. After a round of applause for the song, don Francisco told us that he was a musician. He had played guitar and sang and he wanted to sing for us. He sang a beautiful song of faith, one which had a bit of spirit to it so that in between the stanzas he was moved to provide the "bum, bum, bum, bum" rhythm. He shared a love song. We shared a round in English.

We left behind some things to help make don Francisco a little more healthy and a little more comfortable. We took away the gift of joyful hearts and the image of a man living in a little room, on a little bed with a lot of faith and music in his heart.

When access is available, I will be adding a video of don Francisco singing for us...

He's Here!!

2011-02-07T23:13:00.006-06:00

Halfway through the afternoon, D's voice rang out, "Linda, he's here! Jorge Miguelito is here!"

In the midst of a hectic and hot and dusty and busy day of healing, a moment of joy burst forth. Jorge Miguelito, a little guy who we had first seen 3 years ago during the Mission of Healing, was here!

I grabbed my camera and explained, "con permiso, I need to see a little boy" to the nurse and patient team beside me. I ran into the next space and there was the family, including little Miguelito.

Jorge Miguelito's mom said the surgery to form his upper palate had gone well. With those big brown eyes and shy smile, he captured everyone's heart. God had answered our prayers -- our curiosity about Miguelito was satisfied and we got to give him a squeeze and a kiss for luck for another healthy year and a good outcome for his next surgery.

God bless you, little Miguelito!

Mi Favorita

2011-02-03T21:38:00.004-06:00

It has been a long day. At this moment we are sitting out on the porch, catching up on email, enjoying the cool of the evening.

We had escaped the blizzard by departing from the north a day early, spent extra time in Houston, learned that an ice storm was about to hit Houston, made it out of Houston, had to turn around after flying an hour southward due to a mechanical issue which did not allow us to control the ice or the air pressure, boarded our second plane for the day out of Houston and made it out just before the airport closed.

After a adventure and lesson in patience in the aduanas (customs) office, we drove to our destination, and here we are. We were warmly greeted by our friends, and Alma, who is the best cook perhaps in all of San Salvador, asked us what time we wold like to eat dinner. She usually asks us what we would like to have to eat, and tonight I told her to surprise us. Alma laughed and said, "Of course, I have a surprise for you."

At 7 pm Alma greeted us on the porch with a big platter of piping hot relleno de guisquil - thick slices of green squash-like vegetable with cheese, dipped in egg and fried, and covered with a delicious red sauce. This was a grand gift - a gift of hospitality and love. Alma remembered that this dish is my favorite, and she made it special for our first night here. She was all smiles. "You know that I know what you like best," she said, as I gave her a big hug and showered her with thank-yous.

This was a family welcome - a welcome filled with love and special care. It was a beautiful and warm way to end a long and tiring day.

How are you, Miguelito?

2011-01-31T02:04:00.003-06:00

How are you, Miguelito? Are you clapping and dancing like the last time we saw you? Can you chatter away or sing a little tune? Are you eating well? Have you grown? Does your mama's heart fill with joy every time she casts a glance your way?

Oh, Miguelito...it would be so good to hold you and to give you a squeeze, and to remind you that you are a miracle.

You came to us before your first birthday. You were too small. You could not hold up your own head. Other little ones your age could sit and pull themselves up and babble. You were too weak. The cleft in your palate made it impossible for you to keep the milk from spilling out from your nose and face. The little trickles of nourishment which made it into your tummy had kept you alive -- just barely. Your mama prayed and willed you to live, and she brought you to us hoping for a miracle.

The doctors had said you were too little and too weak for surgery. Without the surgery you would not survive. Dr. Z stroked your little head and felt you all over. You needed special food. You needed a special feeder.

We traveled to pharmacies all over the city, and bought every ounce of preemie formula that we could find. We delivered the formula and bottles to your mom.

One of our nurses had cared for babies with your condition and knew just what kind of feeder you needed. She found the special feeder and extra nipples and special cups just for you. We shipped them all the way from the United States to your mama, and sent formula inside friends' suitcases whenever they traveled to El Salvador. We heard that little by little you were growing.

One year later, your mama brought you to see us again. You cried; you laughed; you sat on the floor; you walked; you danced; you clapped your hands. You lived.

The doctors had repaired your outer lip and you could eat and drink. The doctors planned to take a little piece of bone from your leg and fashion an upper palate for you. Your mouth would soon be just right.

Your mama has not brought you back to see us. This must mean that you are doing well and we rejoice in that hope!

Thank you for touching our lives, little Miguelito. You are a survivor. You are a miracle.

Off the Beaten Path: Museum of Word and Image

2011-01-24T11:00:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite places to go with a little group of people is the Museum of Word and Image in San Salvador. It's a place where you can sit on the floor and learn about Salvadoran poetry, or see an historic photo exhibit of indigenous peoples, or learn about Radio Venceremos and events from the civil war. A few exhibits are permanent. Some come and go. The historic preservation work which occurs behind the scenes is important. The words and images are challenging. The small book store is worth a stop for anyone who wishes to dig a little deeper into the history, culture, and hearts of the Salvadoran people.

Tales of Greasy and Grubby: When Good Comes from Bad

2011-01-20T20:37:00.009-06:00

The morning dawned hot and sunny, but somewhere over the Gulf a hurricane was brewing. Instead of boarding a plane to Miami, we were routed through Los Angeles...the next day! What could we do with an extra day in El Salvador? Attend a celebration, of course.

The Casa de la Juventud, or Youth Center, in Guazapa was celebrating an anniversary and honoring the short life of a little girl named Wendy. The center was built in response to the needs of the community: for a safe place in which children and youth could sing, could dance, could play music, could express themselves through drama, could create works of art, could play sports, and could talk about the challenges of growing up in a society in which bad things sometimes happen to children.

The youth center was built in Wendy's honor. There had been other children who had been murdered, and the community had grieved deeply, but it was Wendy's murder which became the catalyst for action. Wendy's grandmother wanted her granddaughter's life to mean something, and her strength and mission became a call to action for advocacy for the rights of children in the community.

On that day of celebration, dozens of young people shared their gifts of dance and humor and spirit and life with a crowd of family, friends, community leaders and two stranded travelers. After the speeches, entertainment and refreshments, we took a few moments to talk with Wendy's grandma, who held a photograph of her granddaughter who had died on that day seven years ago. Then we paused to look at a sculpture which stands in the front yard of the center - a work of art dedicated to a program "Weapons or Toys" in which children bring in toy guns and weapons and trade them in for notebooks or stuffed animals.

A few years ago, we received this poem which was written on the 13th anniversary of Wendy's birthday...

Today

I am the voice of a child that no longer can speak…

I am the echo that will non longer be expressed,

More now in sadness in exchange for happiness…

I am the voice that can no longer cry;

I am the tears playing in the sea, running in the sky.

I am the one for whom my mother prays at night…

I am the ghost that came to stop at this tomb.

I am the emblem of childhood that today they begin to forge…

I am the heart that one man in your society stabbed.

I am the dream of my family…

I am the memory of almost two years now…

I am the dreamer who would have celebrated 13 years…

I am the illusion of my sisters and brothers;

I am the little girl reflected in yesterday.

I am Wendy who non longer will see another sunrise or sunset.

I am the little flower in the bouquet that you gave today…

It is the garden of a child...who from heaven gives you thanks.

Wendy (May 30, 1988—August 19, 1999)

2011-01-13T20:24:00.002-06:00

Today is the 10-year anniversary of a terrible quake which shook the earth under El Salvador. Roads were broken. Hillsides were broken. Houses were broken. Families were broken.

In the aftermath of the quakes, a seasoned pastor gathered up broken pieces of wood. He took them to his workshop, and fashioned them into a handful of crosses - simple wood crosses, each standing about eight inches tall, stained dark brown and well varnished. Simple crosses, created as symbols of resurrection from earthquakes, from brokenness, from death.

Our sister church pastor presented one of these crosses, made by his dad, to our church as gift. It sometimes sits on the altar, sometimes in the chapel, as a reminder of our partnership. Most people who see this symbol of partnership and resurrection probably do not know of its origin in the rubble of an earthquake.

Another of these crosses rests in special place in my home. Today, I took it into my hands and was reminded of the events ten years ago, of the lives lost, of the homes destroyed, of the prayers offered, of the lives saved, of the homes rebuilt, of the prayers answered.

I looked back over some of the photos from ten years ago - not photos from the earthquake, but photos taken during the eleven months that followed - photos of a four-year old boy from our sister church who came to the US for a heart procedure, photos of Salvadoran pastors participating in our synod assembly, photos of the ordination of a Salvadoran pastor serving as a missionary in our city, and photos of our family celebrating Christmas with families El Salvador. It was the year of the earthquakes and tragedies, and it was also a year of healing, laughter, sharing, celebration and resurrection.

Tales of Greasy and Grubby: Complementary Rings

2011-01-10T16:53:00.008-06:00

Greasy and Grubby are a team, complementary of one another, seeing more clearly together than apart. Circumstances have sometimes caused them to be without one another in their adventures, and that has been sometimes painful.

Grubby never knows why certain memories pop up at certain times, but in this moment she is remembering an experience which left her feeling very overwhelmed, longing for the wisdom of her friend.

It had been a long day of work with the holistic healing team of doctors, nurses, pastors and healers. Maybe we saw 300 or 400 people. The sun set and the request came from the owner of the sewing cooperative that they wanted to have a meeting. I went, and sat at the end of a long table for a conversation about broken machines and lack of local market and could I facilitate shipping to the US and a myriad of other issues which were troubling the little business. The tiredness, the late hour, the struggle with the language all left me feeling beat up. "Yes," I said repeatedly, "I will take that back to our committee. I can't give you an answer right now."

A few hours later, delegation members were tucked safely into their beds round and about the community. It was about 10:30 at night when our sister pastor came to Julia's home where I was staying. A young man, Edgar*, needed to talk with me. We have known Edgar since our first visit to our sister community, first as a quiet teen with a passion for woodworking. As an artist with a vision problem which was keeping him from creating out of wood and metal and paint what he envisioned in his mind, who worked a week of nights and days to create beautiful crosses for us to sell to earn money for a pair of special glasses. As a troubled young adult who had pressures from gang and family situations which we did not understand. As a co-manager of a little woodworking shop who traveled with us to La Palma to learn more about that style of painting and who taught classes at the homeless shelter.

That late night, Edgar wanted to speak with me, and he needed his pastor to be able to do it. Edgar had not been visible yet during our visit, and that night he seemed distant, troubled, maybe a bit under the influence of drink or something else. He was planning to sell the power tools which we had sent. He and his shop-mates had decided that their best plan for survival was to sell this equipment, to hire a coyote and to send Edgar north to the United States. There he could use his skills and send money back. There he would be safe from the gangs. The pastor said that this was Edgar's decision, and the decision of his family and his co-workers, and Edgar needed help in telling me this.

There was nothing I could really say. "You know this is dangerous, right? Are you sure? OK, we will pray for you."

I watched Edgar meander unsteadily back toward his shop. So much promise. So many hidden demons. After all this time I didn't know Edgar, really.

I walked back to Julia's house, sat down and just started shaking. Then I cried. Julia understood. When tough stuff and exhaustion meet, you need your complement to get through it.

Edgar made it to the US. He made it into custody. He was held for 3 months. He wrote us letters. We wrote him letters. An envelope from him arrived with gifts which he made for us while in prison - a woven ring with the name Greasy and a woven ring with the name Grubby. We wore those rings on strings around our necks until Edgar was sent home, where he continues to hide from demons.

*Edgar is not our friend's real name. The rings do have our real names.

Off the Beaten Path: The Quiet UCA

2011-01-03T15:21:00.010-06:00

One of our favorite delegation spots is The UCA (Universidad Centroamericana) in San Salvador. We go there to share the story of the work of the Jesuits during the time of the civil war and take a quiet walk through the rose garden, remembering the sacrifice of the six men and two women who were assasinated. Sometimes we schedule a conversation with Father Dean Brackley or another faculty member. We visit the chapel, the museum and the bookstore. We have been there to hear lectures, to participate in pilgrimages and to meet with friends, but the last time I took a delegation to the UCA, we did none of this. The last time I visited the UCA, everything was closed - just one of those things that happens. So, we walked around the campus, and we enjoyed a different kind of experience.

Up on the hill a coolish breeze made a hot dry day feel lovely. The trees swayed gently and the sounds of traffic were muted by the chirping of birds and the occasional laughter of students. We walked up the stairs and around all of the campus buildings, noticing the angles of the different roof lines and walk-ways casting unique afternoon shadows across our path. We stopped in the outdoor commons, enjoying a little time walking on the shady paths and sitting for a bit at the round tables. Some peeked into the windows of the chapel, catching glimpses of the sobering artwork which hangs on the back wall.

During our downhill walk, we stopped to touch the different leaves and flowers and to peer through breaks in the wall. There were no players or fans at the soccer field, just us, admiring the views of the city and the volcano in the distance. A grassy hill invited a couple of us to lay down and rest for a bit, looking up at the blue, blue sky, branches and birds overhead.

For a little while, we were all in college, hanging out on campus during the quiet hours after class, enjoying nature and walking and friends.

Sparking in the New Year

2010-12-31T16:27:00.008-06:00

"Stand further back!"

"We're fine, Mom."

"Don't light all of those at one time!"

"Alma did it!"

Fireworks from the stadium. Fireworks in the streets. Fireworks in the yard.
New Year's Eve in San Salvador . . .

maybe not every mother's dream . . .

but lots of fun for kids who like sparklers, whistlers, fountains and big BOOMS.

These photos were taken during our second New Year's Eve in El Salvador... some are mine and others were taken by a friend named Rich. Enjoy.

A Happy New Year

2010-12-30T10:30:00.005-06:00

Clink, clinkety, clink. BANG! POP-pop-pop-BANG!!!

The firecrackers hit the corrugated tin roof and before they could roll to the ground exploded with an awesome noise, plenty loud both inside the house and out.

Sleeping was not part of our itinerary for our first New Year's Eve in El Salvador.

Dancing was! Our own kids were down for the count with systems catching up with a week of local food, but my husband and I joined the rest of the families in the Casa Comunal for a lively New Year's Eve dance. One of my favorite images is of tall and lanky "J" who was in his awkward teen years dancing with a gorgeous young woman from the community who was decked out in a little off-the-shoulder yellow top, tight black pants and spike heels. Oh my -- J was having the night of his life. We danced like crazy, laughing and bringing the new year in with loud music and big sweaty smiles.

After the dance, we headed back to our host family homes to catch a little sleep before an early morning departure for the beach. That's when the fireworks began, and the celebration of the new year continued into the wee hours.

And in those wee hours, we got up and loaded ourselves, a group of about 75 cozy and sleepy people, onto a couple of old school bus for the 3 hour ride to the beach. In El Salvador, New Year's Day is Beach Day! The sand, the sun, the surf, and the food gave us a full day of celebratory fun!

The end of Beach Day on that Happy New Year Day brought a whole other adventure. You never know what the new year will bring.

When we arrived home that New Year on January 2nd, it was without our luggage. We still are not exactly sure why our suitcases spent an extra week in Mexico. Maybe it had something to do with a little discovery that J's mom made when she finally unpacked their suitcases. Without her knowledge, J had packed some of those awesomely fun Salvadoran fireworks into a suitcase, hoping to share a Salvadoran Happy New Year celebration back home in the snow.

El Sombrero Azul

2010-12-28T21:04:00.003-06:00

In my mind I see a big blue sky.

Yesterday a funeral was held at our church. A daughter of the congregation was killed in a tragic accident as she was traveling home for Christmas. Her mom, her dad, her sister, her brothers, her boyfriend, her friends, her Sunday School teachers...all are crying, all are grieving. And even though our sisters and brothers in El Salvador do not know this daughter of God personally, they are grieving too, because as family in Christ we are connected in prayer and joy and sadness.

As messages of Feliz Navidad and Merry Christmas passed between us, so did requests for prayer and words of comfort.

... my eyes turned toward the huge blue sky and the thoughts that came to mind were these: God is the creator of life, the creator of all that exists. In life at all times in some places it is night and in other places it is day, in some places new creatures are born and in other places other creatures die, in some places some people laugh and in other places other people cry. And God is always there and the blue color of the sky is always there, and God's time is always - it is in the coming of the Holy Spirit of Pentecost; it is the sacrifice and love of Jesus in the time before Easter; it is the obedience and promise in Mary’s belly; it is the understanding, love and waiting of Joseph in Advent.

The blue sky is always there. Above the clouds, above the rain, above the fog the blue sky is always there.

God is always there.

God's faithfulness imaged in the big blue sky . . . I am remembering Antonio. I am remembering Antonio's bandaged hand raised up against a huge blue sky. "Dale!" "Forward!" "Keep on keeping on!"

Antonio's trust in God and ability to reach for the sky despite the clouds of his illness have served as a reminder to many that God is faithful, that God's time is God's time, and that God intended for us to help each other to keep on keeping on.

Dale.

Author's note: The thoughts about the blue sky and God's presence were shared by Pastor Santiago. The photo of Antonio was taken just after he had raised his hand in the air. This gesture, with the word "dale," is a gesture of solidarity, of moving forward together, of defiance, of "let's go!" and is used during the singing of "El Sombrero Azul." The song refers to the big blue sky of El Salvador like a big blue sombrero.

Merry Christmas, Material Girls

2010-12-22T09:30:00.005-06:00

The girls arrive with their hair in sweet-smelling curls and a little make-up on their lips and cheeks. Their moms are also lovely, with a little bit of anxiousness in their eyes and nervousness in their movements. The space is decorated with balloons and streamers and proud families take their seats in borrowed folding metal chairs. The ceremony begins with the national anthem, blaring out from enormous speakers.

The pastor gives a prayer and the master of ceremonies introduces various dignitaries...a local mayor, pastors, the sewing school teachers, and sometimes, guests from the United States.

Christmas vacation in our sister church community in El Salvador includes a highlight - celebrating graduation day at the sewing school.

The idea of a sewing school and cooperative was one that was birthed early on in our relationship. Over the years we have hauled and shipped machines, equipment, and fabric. We have supported the students with prayer and gifts of graph paper, pencils, tissue and scissors. We have been impressed with the students' design abilities and skill. We have been disappointed when the cooperative aspect of the venture struggled, but have faithfully supported the few or many students who earn official diplomas based on their number of years in the program. We have been measured for clothing, and given the gift of hand-made clothes. And a couple of times, we have shared in the joy of graduation day.

After the anthem has been sung and the guests have been introduced, the fashion show begins. We will all remember that first graduation, as the students modeled their burgundy evening dresses to the blaring strains of Material Girl. Replayed several times, that was the theme song for the year and we just could not help laughing and wondering if the Salvadorans understood the humor in their song selection. That first celebration ended with Greasy's and Grubby's husbands dancing on stage with the models to a few tunes, including Material Girl.

A few years later, Greasy and Grubby were selected to judge the fashion show. There were categories of children's wear, folk dance costumes, casual clothes, women's suits. Grubby had dutifully worn her baby blue polyester skirt, which had been made for her a few years back, and neither felt qualified enough to be the judges. We two decided just to agree with the teachers' choices.

After the show there was a raffle. The prize was a big plastic bucket filled with all kinds of useful things for the kitchen. Grubby's husband, who was also appropriately attired in a pair of khaki pants which had been designed and made for him by the students a while back, was the winner! He had fun giving his gifts away to some of the women later in the day.

The graduates receive their diplomas, each one crossing the floor with Pomp and Circumstance and each escorted by a white-shirted husband, boyfriend or brother. Some of the graduates continue in the program for another year or two, moving from patterning and hand-sewing to machine sewing, or from women's clothing to men's pants or knitwear with the serger. Most of the graduates sew clothes at home for their families, some will make things to sell. Some students get jobs in maquilas (factories or sweat shops). The cooperative aspect of the school has struggled to be successful as its own business.

Men's pants are the specialty of the lead teacher and some of the students, and Grubby's husband, who wears his pants all the time in El Salvador and in the US, will testify to their good quality and fine design. In the past year, this specialty has served the school well, as it was awarded a government contract to make uniforms for the local school children. This has been a wonderful achievement and source of income for the students and the sewing school.

We will continue to support the school with suitcases full of donated fabric, with envelopes of donated needles, with prayers for a productive and successful new year, and with a hearty "Congratulations and Merry Christmas!" to the Material Girls and Guys in the sewing school!

Rum Pum Pum Pum

2010-12-16T09:21:00.004-06:00

We arrived with our families on Christmas Day. We gathered inside the little church, and it was already getting dark. The benches were set up around the perimeter of the walls so that all could see the children who were gathered in the center. Pastor Santiago took on the role of director, gently placing his hands onto kids' shoulders and guiding them into place. Then he bent over, face to faces, so he could give the children some final instructions before the pageant began.

The girls were dressed in their best white dresses, which first appeared at their baptisms or first communions. They carried shepherd staffs, which glittered with Christmas garland. They sang a few songs, and then invited one of our kids, a drummer, to join them for a special song. They handed him some sticks and a little home-made drum and invited him to sit with the others and give the beat.

"Come, they told me, pa rum pa pum pum. A newborn king to see, pa rum pa pum pum..."

This was adorable.

OK, maybe it was adorable to me, as the mother of the drummer.

This little memory really sticks with me because it was just so very thoughtful - to remember that one of the guests has a talent and to invite that guest to be a part of the pageant, the team, the group, the family.

Come.

Rum pa pum pum.

Holly Jolly Christmas

2010-12-13T15:29:00.010-06:00

We were driving through a holiday lights display, laughing at the animated images of Santa in his workshop and the bears in the bakery. With the fresh blanket of snow all around us, the lights were especially pretty.

"When you were a little girl, did you celebrate Christmas with the story of Santa Claus?" I asked my friend from El Salvador. It was her second visit to the US - her first time in the snow.

"Yes," she said. "The parents told the children about Santa Claus, but really, the parents made little gifts for their children. We had Christmas trees. The big stores had trees and decorations and you could visit Santa. Now, with electricity in the communities, people put lights on their Christmas trees. Some houses in the community have lights, but not as much as this," she said, pointing out the car window.

The Christmas traditions in El Salvador are an eclectic mix of pilgrimages to find Jesus and pilgrimages to Metro Centro, of straw reindeer and mangers filled with straw, of golden trees made of tinsel and poinsettias which grow in the gardens along the streets. On one side of La Plaza Barrios people rush by a golden tree with sparkly wise men sponsored by Western Union; on the other side of the street people quietly kneel in the cathedral and offer prayers beside the wise men who bring sparkly gifts to baby Jesus.

One of my friends once had a job in a sweatshop, sewing white furry trim on to red velvet skirts, making "Christmas dresses for little girls in the United States, like Santa's helpers," she had told me.

Some of the Christmas decorations in El Salvador strike me as really funny - the snowman at the airport, the big hat at the mall, the parade of straw reindeer marching along the sidewalk. Others are very sweet - the tree at the guest house decorate with gold-painted tortillas, the little decorated pine tree in a coffee can at a friend's house.

Home-made ornaments next to shiny ones from the store. A real tree in a pot next to the plastic one with the LED lights. The story of Baby Jesus and the story of Santa Claus. Gifts of faith and presence. Gifts of special things and presents. Across miles and language and culture, we have a lot in common.

Looking for Jesus

2010-12-06T16:30:00.006-06:00

All around the world, Christians are setting out decorations and preparing to celebrate the coming of Christ as a baby. Each culture, each community, each family has its own special traditions.

On my fifth birthday a little friend gave me a cardboard nativity set. Every year, on the first weekend in December, I carefully take it from its box and set it up. In this house, it has always gone on the kitchen counter. I unfold the base, insert the stable pieces, put the roof on, insert the background. Each vertical piece has little slots that slip into little semi-circles that fold up from the base. The pieces have to go in order...the animals, the shepherds, the wise men, the adoring child. After everything else is in place, I take up the last piece...Mary is dressed in a soft blue and Joseph in red stands behind her, and in her lap is a chubby baby Jesus. I look at this piece for some moments, and think about what it was like to be Mary. Maybe this is something every girl, every woman thinks about, what it would have been like to have to go door to door, at night, looking for a place to have a baby and then to be Jesus' Mommy.

As worship ended, the sky grew dark. We picked up our lanterns - made with strips of balsa wood, cardboard, colored cellophane, and candles - and went searching for a place where Jesus could be born. The crowd was large with many children, and the children who were accompanied by their pastor led the procession. We stopped at the first place, and read a poem asking if there was room for Mary and Joseph to stay. No. We asked at the second place if there was room to stay. No. Finally at the third place, there was room and there we found Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus.

There, in Quezaltepeque, we celebrated the New Year by going door to door, just as Mary and Joseph did, in the tradition of las posadas.

After the journey through the neighborhood, we gathered in the half-finished church, seated helter-skelter in plastic chairs under the stars, for a celebration dinner. The women of the community had labored all day long to make enough tamales to feed the crowd. Chicken is a treat in this poor community, and no part was wasted as a couple of our kids found out as they bit into a beak, a bone, a foot. The neighborhood dogs enjoyed those extra little bits of surprise.

After dinner, a clown came out to entertain the kids. This was no ordinary clown, this was a clown with a political agenda and a ranting style. This clown was just plain scary. As the clown handed out treats to the kids, we gathered up our kids and shared good-bye hugs all around.

As I set up my cardboard nativity, I sometimes wonder what traditions my kids will remember or preserve from their childhood. Maybe a posada journey from house to house, maybe beautiful faces lit by candlelight, maybe a holiday tamale, maybe a laugh about a beak or a foot, maybe a story about an exuberant clown, and surely the feeling of big Christmas hugs on a starry night in Quezaltepeque.

Tales of Greasy and Grubby: Yes, they are waiting...

2010-11-27T09:08:00.003-06:00

Waking up on time was not a problem. The rain pounding on the tin roof during the long hours of the night was followed by the roosters crowing and the all-dog alert, so that before the sun came up, we were already finished with any attempt of sleeping. We slithered out of our sleep sacks and peeked into our shoes (hoping a random mouse, cockroach or scorpion had not settled inside for the night) before we slipped them on and headed for the latrine.

That old latrine experience was always an adventure. Weaving in and under the plants, the short little distance to the potty seemed longer than it really was, especially in the dark. The outhouse was just wide and deep enough for the cement seat and a skinny person. The 2-foot step down into the outhouse carried a moment of mystery...would it be squishy full of mud? would the cockroaches scurry up the walls? Greasy had a harder time of it, being so tall that she could not really stand up without bumping her head on who knows what. It was best not to pull the cardboard door across the opening, but to let your best friend stand guard and hold the flashlight while you gingerly lifted the cover off of the pot.

After a tag-team latrine adventure, we slipped back into the house and got dressed and organized ourselves for the new day. We were scheduled to teach in the community school that morning, sharing a mini-VBS experience with the elementary school kids. School started at 8 am, and we were starting to get a little anxious about the time as the early morning wore on. Back then, Greasy spoke a little Spanish, and Grubby did not, and neither wanted to be rude about asking Julia to hurry up the breakfast process. Finally, Greasy said, "We'd better go."

We gathered our stuff, making the move to politely leave. Julia looked at us and said that we couldn't leave without breakfast. "They are waiting for us at the school," Greasy explained.

"Yes," said Julia calmly. "They are waiting."

The tone of voice in that matter-of-fact statement, "yes, they are waiting" really struck us. They will wait. They will start when you get there. You can't teach unless you take care of yourself first. Quit worrying about the clock.

We sat down and ate breakfast. Yes, they were waiting.

A Banquet Parable

2010-11-24T09:08:00.003-06:00

Our first visit...

We arrived in sister church community in the late afternoon. Seven of us had broken off from the synod delegation to spend time with people we knew through story and the occasional email. A celebration awaited us, but news of a family in mourning had been shared with our sister pastor. We walked down an unfamiliar dirt path, down a hill to a home where many people had gathered. The crowd parted so that we strangers could enter the home. It was very dark inside, and as our eyes adjusted to the candlelight we could see the family members weeping at the loss of their daughter. Maybe she was ten years old. Our sister pastor did not really know the family, but in moments of trouble and grief, there is community and solidarity and faith.

The smell of the candles, the cadence of prayers of the rosary, the sweaty heat of many bodies inside the adobe house, the confusion of not knowing how to behave at a vigil for a little girl in a country we had just met cement this memory into our beings. Our first moments in our sister church community were moments spent in being together. Just being together.

When it felt right, we quietly left. We walked up the dark path toward the light at the top of the hill. The light shone out from the half-walls of a small shed-like building, made of corrugated tin and bamboo slats - the church. We were ushered inside, where a big table almost filled the entire space. The church benches were lined up along the walls, and there was just enough room for us to squeeze past and find seats. After the seven of us were seated, the spaces at the table filled in with men, women and kids from the community. The food was placed in the center of the table. It was incredibly hot, tight with people who were strangers trying to learn about each other despite the barrier of language.

We seemed to be waiting for something and noticed two empty chairs at the head of the table, right at the front of the church, under the cross. We thought we were waiting for the pastor and his wife. We waited.

And we waited.

And then Julia walked in, walking arm in arm with a blind man on her left and his blind wife on her right, weaving carefully around all of the crowded benches as the women, the men and the children made way, to the head of the table. The guests of honor had arrived, and the meal began.