Our Trip to Hacienda de Mateo...truly beautiful

Mateo is a great friend because the dude loves to travel. He's the only one of my friends down here that has a car, and it is great. So, this past weekend we made our way to his farm way out in the country that's like 4 hours away from Quito.

The place was truly beautiful. We saw beautiful landscapes, incredible plant life, and had a little fun with the Andes mountains. I had a great time with my friends and we just relaxed.

Probably the highlight of the trip came right at the beginning. As we arrive Mateo starts looking around for this type of juice. It supposedly tastes like honey juice, but it comes from a plant instead of bees. He starts asking all these Indigenous people and finally asking about 15 people we find Rosa.Rosa is a nice elderly woman who told us she had this juice. We gave her a ride to her house, she introduces us to her husband Victor, and makes her way into a field. She sets up next to this plant that looks like a funny cactus and starts taking out this liquid from the root. She offers us a little cup of it, and I was like, 'alright, this is something different. I could be into this.' I try it and Mateo was right, it tasted just like honey juice.

The reason this was the highlight because it was about people. It was real. On the way to the farm and even throughout the weekend we saw all kinds of incredible landscapes, but I just felt like there was something missing. Meeting Rosa and Victor seemed to make it for me. I mean these people never see white people. They are in the middle of the Ecuadorian

country. There's no T.V., no internet, and they've been living in that surrounding area their entire lives. I just felt like I experienced something that most people never will, because it's not something that you can look up on Google. It's relationship.

Learning

I purposely skipped a week because a lot of stuff has been happening.

Comfort is a funny thing. After writing my last post and the few days that followed I was in a pretty low place. Then...gringo's arrived. Comfort is funny because I went from a place of complete discomfort, to a place of familiarity simply because a couple of white people showed up from California. I found myself talking a lot and I realized how much I missed having those kinds of conversations. Conversations where I don't have to translate. Conversations where I don't need to find other words because I can't say in Spanish what I really want to say. Conversations where I can keep up with what the other person is saying.

We had a great weekend. We all went to a retreat center about an hour away from Quito and experienced some great moments. We had a little gathering Sat. night, had some worship and shared a few thoughts. It felt crazy because it was like a taste of home though I was on another continent. However, I was constantly reminded because there was a guy translating everything into Spanish. Towards the end of the night we had a Young Life style 15 min. of silence. Jono, the guy from California leading our time, read the passage where the Lord tells us to be still and know that He is God. I walked outside into the misty rain and into the garden. I found a spot under a small roof and meditated on this phrase. As always I was distracted, but this 'distraction' led into some conclusive thoughts. I've never experienced before what I'm experiencing now. During the talk earlier the message seemed to have an underlying tone of seeking the Lord. A feeling of, 'how can I experience God more,' with a sense of, 'because I'm not really content with what I have right now.' I don't feel that here. It seems like a foreign concept. I constantly feel uncomfortable, and I constantly feel God. I've never experienced that. Usually I would feel uncomfortable, then I would feel God and that would put everything in perspective thus destroying the discomfort. But here, I feel both. I came to the conclusion of what if God was in the uncomfort? In fact, to go further, what if God is the uncomfort. And in turn the answer is not to run away from that makes me feel different, but rather embrace it.

The California crew left the following Monday and I felt very sad. It wasn't because I had experienced this incredible friendship with these guys, but rather it was the re-submersion into the experience here. It was also the fact that my buddy the translator was leaving as well. It was both good and bad having him. It was great because for the first time I understood everything that was happening. As it turns out my roommates are very funny guys with funny stories. I've been missing out on those for the past 2 months. It also turns out that my roomates have very deep relationships with the Lord and quite a bit of wisdom. Also something else that I've been missing out on. And that's what brought the sadness. I compared my experience to a blind man that is being healed and learning to see. At first everything is blurry and he doesn't know what's going on, much like what it has been for me. But then as time wears on certain things begin to take shape and he starts to understand the world around him. It gets to a point that he thinks he has a decent grasp on what's happening, but then, BAM, for one sec. he can see everything, and he sees how far off he really is. That's me. When Sal (the translator) was here it was like my eyes were opened and I understood everything, but then it was a slap to the face because I realized how far off I was, and what I've been missing out on. The sadness was that my 'sight' went back to the way it was when he left.

However, it's important to have a positive outlook on things. The only thing to do is trust. I've always had to trust, and therein lies the strength. I rest heavily on the quote, 'that which you can't control is God's will.' I am in God's will. And, to leave tonight with another quote from my boy Oswald Chambers, 'God does not give overcoming life, He gives us life as we overcome. Thus, there can be no strength without the strain.'

The Reality

There are times where I am slapped in the face with the harsh reality that I am not home; that I am not comfortable. Sunday was one of those days.

I woke up with an initial feeling of excitement. I played out my day in my head and it sounded pretty good: mass at a sweet little Church I found, then lunch at this great coffee shop in an historic part of town. Mass would be great because I would receive Christ, and then study Spanish all day at this coffee shop. I felt it. Something I haven't felt in a long time: comfort. I had a schedule, and I felt great about it. Well, it didn't really turn out the way I thought it would.

First the water for the shower wasn't hot; never a good start. Then Mass was cut short because some funeral right after the mass. People in Ecuador, at least people at this church, are a little funny. It's no secret that I'm the only white person at this Church, but people seem to avoid me. The fact that there was a funeral was yet another slap to my pride that I don't know what's going on most of the time. After I left the church I went to my favorite coffee shop, but my time there was cut a little short due to the weather and I didn't bring enough clothes to stay warm. I needed to walk by the grocery store and decided to do a little exploring on my way there. I was admiring Quito and it's history when I turned the corner and saw something a little peculiar. I saw what seemed to be the end of a small conflict. I saw a white guy push away a man that seemed to be demanding something. It was directly in my path to the grocery store and I had a thought of, 'do I avoid the situation or do I just confront it head on?' Well, I chose the latter option and walked right straight towards my destination. As I passed this guy he punched me in the arm and demanded money. Now, I've heard that San Roque (the area where I'm living) isn't that safe, but I've never experienced any moment where I didn't feel safe in 6 weeks. I told the guy I didn't have any money and tried to walk away. He grabbed me and pointed to my pocket exclaiming that he could see my wallet in my front pocket. Well, the truth was I had money, but I wasn't carrying my wallet and pulled out medicine instead. I kept going and didn't think much of it. For some reason it really stuck with me and I started to look at the locals a little differently. Later on that night I was in the house when about 15 teenage dudes came busting in. As it turns out my roommate Javy told them about some kind of youth group that was hosted at our house. He neglected to lock the door behind him and these guys invited themselves in. I went to investigate and left my ipod charging with my computer. They were in the house for about 2 min. until Javy kicked them out, but that's all it took for some punk to jack my ipod. So here I am: I'm sick, I was semi-mugged, and my ipod just got stolen.

I am uncomfortable.

I know that I am down here for a reason. I really believe that. I know that God is in the uncomfortable moments as He is in the comfortable ones. However, I seem to desperately reach out to Him in the uncomfortable times. So that's the reality of where I'm at now.

Reaching.

The Difference

There are some blog posts that are spur of the moment, and then there are some that you really plan out. Some moment happens and you say to yourself, ‘yeah…I’m going to blog about this.’ And then you replay in your mind what you’re going to write about all day and get excited thinking about. (Then when the moment comes your internet is crap and you’re forced to type your thoughts first in Microsoft Word and then copy and paste…)

Now that I’ve built this blog up to be something that it probably won’t be…here we go.

Music is an incredible thing. It has the ability to bypass the brain and hit the heart. It has the ability to take you back to a moment in time and you don’t just remember it, you feel it. Last night I was with a friend and I had my itunes playing in the background. Then, I felt it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSTQ1tkmjv0

The song is called ‘Catastrophe and the Cure (Four tet remix)’ by Explosions in the Sky. There’s no words…which makes this song perfect for smoking hookah. Some of my favorite nights happened in my backyard in Kansas City and as this song came on it took me back to one of those nights. For those of who you don’t know or were not able to participate, there was a little ‘tradition’ if you will. On a nice summer night I would have friends come over and the evening consisted of about 4 key essential ingredients: booze, fire, hookah, and music. I LOVED these nights. These nights were great because there was no schedule. You came over; you forgot what time it was; you just enjoyed yourself; you just lived; you appreciated it for what it was. You would walk in and the house would be littered with pockets of great conversation. An ‘explosion’ of electric guitar, drums, base, and some kind of digital keyboard would hit you and it seemed to relax and excite you at the same time. The noises varied as your eyes passed over friendly and familiar faces. A short walk through the living room and kitchen, down the stairs with the super low ceiling, and into the basement with the mini fridge. Inside several types of beer are discovered, but how can you pass up a Kansas City favorite Boulevard Wheat? A little twist and your mouth appreciates the taste of a locally made brew. You feel relaxed; you feel comfortable. Just outside the door are flickers of orange and yellow and faint laughter. With beer in hand you pull open the back door…and there I am: huge smile on my face, hookah hose in hand, Boulevard at my foot, and fire and friends in front of me. Some dude from Mighigan is perfectly playing the sounds of Damien Rice with a scratched up guitar. Why is it scrached up? Something about a disillusioned moment after Guatemala... A chair is open next to a shaggy haired Antonio Banderas look-alike and you sit down. I’m begging people to watch this guy breathe out ‘dragon smoke’ as a wild smell of cherry and lemon-lime hits your nostrils. A hearty man with a gut drawn laugh sits straight across from you with a giant smile, beer resting on his stomach, and glasses glinting from the fire. A laugh seems to smack you in the face as you look to your right and see a man telling some ridiculous story using all kinds of hand motions and outlandish vocabulary. There's a chill dude with long black hair and you find that all you want to do is be this guy’s friend. You overhear some story about the time that he blew up a glass cup in the sink with a waterproof firecracker that he didn’t know was waterproof. Diagonal from you is a face that you’ve seen on some kind of State Representative brochure….Mike something. The hookah hose gets passed to you and all of a sudden some super ken-tense dude sits down next to you. Is this the same guy from the Wolverine movie? Regardless, you feel your manhood is at stake as he challenges you to see how long you can breathe in the hookah. The flavored air hits your lungs as you hear the counting off of numbers and the muffled sound of bubbles. 20 seconds…30 seconds…40. ‘Come on,’ shouts some dude with glasses and a comb over, ‘if you can do 40 you can do 50.’ As your lungs force you to pull the wooden tipped hose away you overhear a story about the time this guy swam laps and almost died because of this same ‘philosophy.’ ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ shouts some Nebraska farm boy with an incredible ability to pierce the ears. You find that your beer is empty and it's time for another. You make your way inside and your eyes meet another friendly face wearing a K-State collared shirt. The second beer is drank while you are enchanted by this man's ability to tell stories about our country and politics.

The night goes on, the beers get drunk, the tobacco gets smoked, the wood gets burned, and the music gets played. People begin to file out as Justin Paton and myself make our way to another tradition: the showing of ‘The 5^th Element.’ It’s not a good movie (Justin, I’m sorry, but let’s be honest. There’s a reason why it didn’t win any awards.), but a tradition nonetheless. You find a seat next to what's left of the party and watch Bruce Willis destroy aliens. Your eyes are heavy, but as you begin to drift a sudden and random phrase rattles you awake from the dude that has passed out on the futon. It's time to go. The night ends...

This is what I miss: the sounds, the stories, the smells, the images, the fire, the people. As I was recounting all of this to my friend I realized something. When I have recounted moments in the past there was a bit within me that missed them so much that I wanted to be there again. It would take me away from the present and leave my embittered at the fact that I couldn’t be there. However, this time was different, another piece of evidence to me that I am growing. I don’t miss these moments because I want to escape the present. I miss these moments because I appreciate them. I appreciate the sounds, the stories, the smells, the images, the fire, the people. They are all a part of my life. They were meant to be experienced, but not to be held onto; not to be used as an escape. They were meant to be loved; to be missed; to be appreciated.

This is the difference.