Tengo muchas alas para llegar al cielo

Every day here feels like it comes sailing in straight from heaven. I think I actually wake up smiling, I really feel like I have "the dove of peace" singing in my heart, like the song says. Unequivocally coming here was the right decision, I'm so glad I didn't let anything deter me...I have been perfectly led!

I wanted to write about Monday, when I went out on family visits with TRACA, because it was a piece of soul, but I felt disinclined because I realized I'd have to explain how JUCONI works and the complexities of the program and it started to feel like a research paper in my mind--I just want to write about what's precious to me, but I also figured I would explain what I'm doing here in Mexico. JUCONI is very deeply structured and there are many levels of organization; basically they are a non-governmental organization that focuses on providing services for 3 vulnerable populations: children who live in the street, children who work in the street, and children who work in the Hidalgo market. If you want to know more just ask me, or look at http://www.togetherwiththechildren.org/--it's the site of JUCONI's U.S based office.

Basically my volunteer work here will be in the TRACA program, (TRAbajadores de la CAlle) which focuses on street-working children and their families. TRACA is a team of three of the most excellent, warm-hearted and brilliant social workers I have ever met--Carla, Marci, and Lolis. Carla is the director and I work most closely with her. She is utterly amazing. All 3 of them are so kind and attentive and willing to include me in everything and explain words I don't understand. It's so different working with people who make you feel appreciated (I am thinking of Dr. Cibano in the orphanage who wanted to throw us out half the time). I feel affection from them and even though I'm obviously just starting out with them, they praise me for everything I do! The other day when we were doing family visits, every time we left from a house I would tell Carla and Lolis what impressed me about their interactions with the people and how I thought they were just bubbling over with goodness..Carla thanked me at the end of the day and said that me being there was very encouraging because they don't often compliment each other like that, "but [they] should." She said it made her feel good all day...and her telling me that made me feel like I was contributing a little, and it was nice. I love watching them work because I see them applying techniques I learned about in social work textbooks and classes...things like starting where the client is, identifying strengths, encouraging self-determination..principles that can sound a little dry and technical unless you see them in action, and then it just looks like...love. It is absolutely inspiring to see. This is all I have ever wanted to do.

TRACA works with a number of families who are involved in working the "crucero." This kind of street work can involve anything from selling flowers and candy to being a street performer to dealing drugs to prostitution. Some cases are more severe and horrifying than others, but children who work in the street here tend to come from very poor homes where violence, addictions, abuse and exploitation are present--and obviously they are exposed to many dangers on the streets as well. Many families rely on the income the kids bring in from the street to sustain them (I was surprised that street workers actually do generate a significant income; often it is even greater than a typical Mexican salary--so you can understand the attraction of continuing to live that way.) The crucero essentially exists as a livelihood for many families; in many cases the parents work there with their children, who grow up without ever attending school or training for another vocation, and eventually take their own children to the crucero. It's a very tragic and damaging cycle and I am so impressed with the work that JUCONI does in helping families break it and transform their way of life. The archives in the office are full of stories of miracles...JUCONI is founded on good principles and really does generate positive change for so many people who need it. In the TRACA program participating families receive individual and family therapy, advocacy with potential employers, schools, etc, access to medical care, in-kind benefits like food and cleaning supplies, and "intangible" resources such as support, education and hope. (Haha I feel like I'm writing a policy paper, after SOCW 331 I don't know how else to describe these things!)

It's amazing to listen to the stories of how much these families have been transformed. We'd walk away from a home where there were clearly some painful defecits and Carla would say, "You should have seen them 3 years ago..." Carla was telling me that she was diagnosed with a painful illness 5 years ago and was advised by her doctor to stop working, but she said, "How can I stop? When I've seen people stop drinking and show affection to their children, when I see a little boy who was on drugs a year ago graduating from school, how can I stop?" I told her that God knew her heart and how much she gave and that I thought He would help her stay healthy enough to keep going. She hugged me and said she thought so too.

TRACA does not usually have volunteers because the nature of their work is slightly dangerous (going into the homes of families with serious problems, working out in the ghettos), varies erratically from day to day and can often be "pesado" (emotionally taxing and discouraging). Whenever I hear a job description like that I just start waving my hand and jumping up and down! PICK ME! When I first arrived, the JUCONI director, Travis (he is the only American here besides me...he's from Colorado and is a huge stud; he has done a ton with the Peace Corps and other community development projects. He started out as a volunteer at JUCONI and is raising his family here in Puebla!) told me that my experience and language level would qualify me to do something other than to work in the offices or in the Montessori kindergarten, which is where they place most foreign volunteers...they can have a great experience learning Spanish and being with the kids, but he thought I would be happier having a hands-on social work experience because that's where it seems like my heart is. He is pretty much exactly right,and also a genius.

I can't explain how exhilarated I feel to be here and to work with these families! This is what I have always wanted. It's a different kind of sweetness than holding forgotten angel children in Romania, but this is an opportunity for me to learn how to give effective service in a country that I love so much, in a language that is like sugar to me. I can't get enough of it, every day I'm so excited to go out and learn more and meet more people and I'm realizing this is already too long for anyone to get through; sorry, and I also apologize for my meandering writing style and the overabundance of parentheses. Where are the tangent police when you need them huh? THOSE TO COME: A gift to my soul, my first day out in the calle, choice details about living here and drama at Institute! Oh yeah!

Like a Prayer

You know how sometimes they say you're beating a dead horse? I just fell into a tiny canyon of depression thinking of some dead horses on whom I cannot seem to resist performing CPR (when I'm not flogging them just to make sure they're not faking). I just need to quit being in denial about their accidental deaths and stop getting horse slobber all over me. I've been given signs and wonders and direct counsel from friends of my soul and as much as it is going to hurt to leave My Little Ponies behind, I have to pull it together and just work it, bring my A game (wow sorry, too much ANTM! It's the new O.C. You have to have some kind of thrashy link to American pop culture when you're all alone in a foreign land.). I had to get over my depression real fast by doing pushups to Michael Jackson's "Black and White" (that's a Sunday song, right? 2 Nephi 26:33! Well, it's after midnight anyway.), and now I'm ready to write! I have to say I've been much more enthused about blogging since Eminem left a comment on my last post. Seriously so blessed, freestyle-style.

But My Little Ponies. Wow it's hard--it's so hard. Sin embargo, sliding into this world has been like sliding back into my real self--for the first time in a long time I wake up every morning feeling bright and clean and happy. The world fits with me again, I don't feel as much bitterness clouding my heart, I got to leave a lot of demons behind...Provo was getting a little toxic for me in my advancing age and my vision was twisted by things I was thinking. Here, I honestly feel washed with light. I can't express what a sweet relief it is being in the company of the members here. They have reminded me of the glory of my Savior and what a treasure His gospel is. I never completely forgot, but my perspective had shifted just enough that the artificial culture was starting to strangle my testimony of real truth. I know life is a never-ending battle to keep that from happening--to constantly keep your focus heaven-ward--but this is a glorious time of refreshing for me. I needed it so much.

I spent most of this weekend with my friend Manuelcito. I met him when he taught the institute class on Thursday. He is such a tender and powerful teacher that it makes you want to pass out King Lamoni style...he's just so strong and clean and bright that talking to him erases my cynical thoughts and insecurities and I just want to be good, and not worry about anything else. Manuel has an amazing gift to motivate people this way. He served in Guadalajara and I knew some of the elders in his mission from the MTC (47F, if you are reading this...it was Pugmire. Ha!). Manuel is in medical school right now and his dream is to start a foundation for the poor in Mexico who cannot afford health care. He wants to have enough supplies and resources so that he can visit rural villages and offer medical treatment to people who need it. He is the young men's president in his ward and also their seminary teacher--they all love him and follow him around at church. Besides the fact that he is generally a much better person that I am, we have a little bit of the same spirit in us. He told me that today..."Me siento mucha confianza contigo, de veras. Tu me comprendes bien." My mission president gave me a blessing before I left for Mexico and promised me that I would find myself among brethren who would strengthen and uplift me, and that's really happening already! Gibran came back from Utah this week (after like 5 days) and we got Mexican hamburgers and went to a playground to eat. Mexican burgers have pineapple and cheese and onions, and some other things I couldn't identify that taste amazing together, unless you go on the swings right after. :) I told him about "yo sabo" and tried to convince him that "quesoburgesa" and "celefono" are real words. He has been amazing with me, too--so has my friend Adriana, the bishop's family, and Manuel's family, Los Rojas. I have been exceedingly blessed.

Today was like a drop of sunshine! It really was a perfect Sunday. Attending church services in Spanish still feels like a pillar of yes to me--I'm like a little sponge of appreciation. I love the way faith and dedication to the gospel are expressed in the Spanish language, it is stunning to me. Certain phrases and principles that I struggle with in English seem to be softened and sound more loving. All the members are too good for me and I'm getting used to giving all the hermanos un besito when I meet/saludar them. After church I ate with Manuel's family and his mother practiced her English--painfully--on me. I asked his little brother Ilan what American music he likes, and he eagerly told me, "Madonna and Hillary Duff." (JAJA! I get such a kick out of asking people what American music they like here because invariably the bands are extremely different from each other--the other day the bishop's son told me he likes the Killers and Amy Winehouse.)

After Church Manuel told me he had a surprise for me and that we were going to do something I would love...so we went to a nursing home to lift up the hands that hang down. :) (See, that's why we'll be good friends.) There was an enormous courtyard with a bleeding-heart statue of Christ in the middle...most of the residents were sitting on benches that lined the balconies above the courtyard. As we walked past them they all greeted us and seemed so eager for company, it made my heart ache. I squeezed their hands and asked them how they were and let them touch my hair; I wish I could do something real for them that would make them feel strong and needed and fully loved again. President Monson speaks often of the lonliness of the elderly and how meaningful a kind visit can be for them. I thought about that all afternoon.

We went specifically to take the sacrament to an hermana who is very ill and can't leave to come to church anymore, but we talked to many of the residents there--I was surprised that we had to show ID and go through double doors like at the youth detention center. Visiting hours are very strict, too, and since it is a Catholic nursing home we aren't permitted to sing our hymns there because it is considered proselyting. I felt a little dismal about that because the hermana was talking about how much she misses being at church and hearing the singing. I wanted to sing to her. Sometimes on my mission all we could do was sing because there were no words we could come up with that wouldn't trivialize genuine suffering. Manuel told the hermana about the rededication of the Mexico City temple in November and she began to weep softly and cried, "I can't go to the temple...I want to go to the temple." I felt her despair burning me. We read some scriptures with her and Manuel gave her a blessing and she was smiling and joking by the time we left. I love meeting people like her because even though it's dreadful to see unhappiness, at least they will have one more wisp of a prayer going up on their behalf. I am deeply happy being here and grateful for this gift of a Sunday.

These Songs are True, These Days are Ours, These Tears are Free

It rains every afternoon here, no matter how sunny and promising the mornings are. Once I got over my initial distress that Puebla wasn't like a sauna all the time, I began to love walking home in that dim rain with the sky all muddled gray swallowing blue and people everywhere ducking for cover. There's some kind of sweetness in that, I don't know. There are certain songs I always listen to when I'm walking in the rain--one of them in Paul Simon's The Obvious Child. I love how the Brazilian drums seem to catch the beat of the raindrops falling.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJdAAozwq5Y

Here is a video of Paul Simon singing this song live--it's almost too good.
The recorded version sounds pretty different but it also amazing. And here are the lyrics:

Well I'm accustomed to a smooth ride
Or maybe I'm a dog who's lost its bite
I don't expect to be treated like a fool no more
I don't expect to sleep through the night
Some people say a lie is just a lie
But I say why
Why deny the obvious child?
Why deny the obvious child?

And in remembering a road sign
I am remembering a girl when I was young
And we said These songs are true
These days are ours
These tears are free
And hey
The cross is in the ballpark
The cross is in the ballpark

We had a lot of fun
We had a lot of money
We had a little son and we thought we'd call him Sonny
Sonny gets married and moves away
Sonny has a baby and bills to pay
Sonny gets sunnier
Day by day by day by day

I've been waking up at sunrise
I've been following the light across my room
I watch the night receive the room of my day
Some people say the sky is just the sky
But I say
Why deny the obvious child?
Why deny the obvious child?

Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself
How it's strange that some rooms are like cages
Sonny's yearbook from high school
Is down from the shelf
And he idly thumbs through the pages
Some have died
Some have fled from themselves
Or struggled from here to get there
Sonny wanders beyond his interior walls
Runs his hand through his thinning brown hair

Well I'm accustomed to a smooth ride
Maybe I'm a dog that's lost his bite
I don't expect to be treated like a fool no more
I don't expect to sleep the night
Some people say a lie is just a lie
But I say the cross is in the ballpark
Why deny the obvious child?

Other than the sweet drum solo and poignant lyrics, this song is also special to me because it's one of my father's favorites--the one he says he wants played at his funeral. (I have a feeling my mother is going to try to thwart this particular desire--she thinks Paul is "too cynical--" but I'm here for you Dad! I'll make sure it happens!) Dit and I used to dance around to it when my father put on his records on Monday nights, back in the early 80's when we were also Mungo Jerry and Rumple Teaser. When I re-discovered the song, I was old enough to understand.

My father told me his favorite verse is the one where Sonny is looking at his high school yearbook and marveling at the passage of time; how quickly years spiral away. The people Sonny went to school with are not children any longer; life became very hard and painful them...they grew up. In the end even the remembrance of their struggles is crumbling away as they age and their own children take the stage. I can see why this song is so intriguing to my father, because I've spoken with him in some of his Sonny-like states--telling me about a person he knew well who has passed away, describing moments in his life that are still so sharp and clear to him that it's staggering to realize they happened so long ago.

It's very bittersweet to me because I (and I think relatively I still count as "young," except maybe in Provo years, where my age is roughly 53) also have those tearing thoughts about my childhood and other glory days when it really seemed like everything I touched was golden, before real suffering came. Other times nostalgia makes me stagger not because those other times really were superior to now--just that they are gone! Sometimes it seems so hurtful that you can never crawl back into a moment when you were happy. I see in this song a lifespan--the inevitability of fading youth--"the night receives the room of my day"--everyone has their day in the sunlight, when the world and all the songs in it "belong" to them. Time passes on and those days in the sun turn into memories. Life is a struggle and wrings everyone into some sort of weariness eventually--the dog that's lost its bite.

...I also used to listen to it on the way to Dr. Seipel's class (my last one at BYU) and think to myself, "It's strange how some rooms are like cages." :)Oh, and one more funny story about this song: one night after dinner last summer we were discussing names for Garrett and Aya's future children. Aya told me that she and Dit liked the name Mae because it worked in English and in Japanese. In an effort to be culturally sensitive, I suggested "Yamaha," "Toshibi," and "Sony" as possible considerations. While we were giggling, my father cleared his the throat from the end of the table--he was smirking the way he always does before he makes a joke--and sang, "We had a little son, thought we'd call him Sony...Sony gets married and moves away, Sony has a baby and bills to pay..." Mary and I began to cackle and I remember everyone else at the table was bewildered, and my Dad was pretty pleased with himself. It was SO funny. I remembered that today and started laughing in the street. :)...I love my Father.

Adventures and Tormented Yowling

So let's not forget ourselves dear friends...I haven't been very diligent with my blog. This is partially because this week was the bi-annual staff training at JUCONI and I didn't get to do much besides read policies and meet people (which nevertheless was thrilling) and I have been exploring "La Ciudad Con Alas" everywhere from ancient ruins to cathedral light shows to mist-covered mountains to Catholic Churches on top of pyramids. It is all breathtaking and so much fun to do, but probably less fun to read about. Also I'm self-conscious writing because I read blogs where people talk about what they had for dinner and what color of shirt they wore that day and what they gave the cat for lunch, blah blah blah and I have a vested interest in not being dull nor pretentious. Probably I am both, but maybe people who care about me won't mind and will read anyway :).

I spent the weekend with my good friend Gibran. He is an amazing tour guide and a marvelous human being. Our joke is that the solution to all perceivable problems is to marry a Mexican. It started on Indy Day when I was lamenting my weak post-mission Spanish and Gibran's friend said, "Just marry a Mexican, problem SOLVED!" Since then if I remark that I think Hispanic kids are the cutest, if I comment that the U.S doesn't have as much "culture" as Mexico, if I mention in that poems and songs are much more romantic in Spanish, Gibran reminds me that all of these desirable things can be mine if I marry a Mexican. :) Here are some fierce shots of Mexican radness: an Indy Day parade we saw last weekend on our way to Cantona! The one of me soaking wet is from the day I tried to go to the store to buy tape and encountered a torrential downpour. The others are from the ruins at Catona and the mountain I climbed with Gibran. Oh, and also me bored waiting at a bank (Not necessarily in that order. Or any order.):


















I've been trying to be conscious of whether or not I've been experiencing culture shock since I got here, and I can honestly say the only uncomfortable feeling I've had is a growing cold guilt feeling for being white and American. I listened to someone go into a long diatribe about Mexican-American war and how the U.S greedily seized all the land and left Mexico with few resources after murdering many Mexican soldiers. I'm not well-versed in the history of wars and rumors of wars, but the bitterness in the conversation stung. Basically this person was telling me that all Mexicans should detest Americans instead of trying to suck up to them and performing all the "low" jobs in the US while they are exploited and treated horribly. Wouldn't you feel the same way?? This conversation sparked a series of thoughts and observations that left me feeling gradually more ashamed. When people gave me deferential treatment based on assumptions, I started thinking about how entitled the U.S must seem (and IS) to so many people. The class distinctions here are all about the inferiority of people who are or appear indigenous, versus those who are from Spanish descent with their fairer skin. It's a type and a shadow of the erroneous idea that is implicated almost everywhere; that white is "better." I feel such heavy weights hung on my heart when I think of all the suffering, indignity and wretchedness that has occurred from that lie. I don't understand everything it means or how it works; all the racism theories from community development have a different explanation, but it truly disgusts me. I don't want to feel that I am better than anyone, I really don't think I am. This weekend I saw and heard many things that made me feel uncomfortable with the comforts I have had, and I'm not sure how to make it fit for me. Right now it feels disjointed and painful, like I sprained something in my mind. Maybe that's the way we should feel all the time.

Saturday night Gibran was in a race that took place in the Centro. He had to go ahead to make it on time and he yelled back over his shoulder, "You know how to get there, right?" Um. Yeah, yeah, go right on ahead! I wandered around for about half an hour lamely hoping that I was going towards the Centro (this hope was enlivened by a massive parade of school kids running with banners and screaming "CAL-DER-ON! CAL-DER-ON!"--the name of the President of Mexico. It reminded me of nothing so much as "PERON, PERON, PERON!" :)I asked directions from a police officer who kindly said, "Que te pasa, preciosa?" He directed me 10 blocks from where I was. I promise I followed his instructions exactly. When I ended up in a dark alley that smelled like rotten fish I decided that perhaps he was insane in the membrane. I found another officer (I don't know what my obsession with cops was that night; I guess I figured they were more trustworthy?) who told me I was totally in the wrong part of town and sent me in the opposite direction. (This phenomenon has occurred several times since I've been here--and since anyone who knows me knows that I can barely find my way out of a building, it has cost me some time. But I am learning. Anyway, today my roommate Joyce was telling me that Mexicans often give convoluted instructions if they themselves aren't sure where something is, or if they don't understand the question. She said they're so eager to help that they don't make the effort to find out exactly what you need and the result is massive miscommunication and ending up in fishy alleys. :) But it's ALL GOOD in the HOOD! I'm learning!

What I really meant to say is that when I finally arrived at the Centro that night to watch the end of the race, I was felt so defeated. I found a place to sit and wait that happened to be right next to a man who was begging from the people who had come to cheer on the runners. He was crouched in his wheelchair and his prosthetic legs were basically just wires and two blocks of wood--material to fill out his pants, never to help him walk. He was a torso with such a kind smile. I gave him all the change I had in my bag--it clinked despairingly into the empty bowl--and then watched agonizingly as he lifted up his bowl over and over again and people stepped past him, pushed away his outstretched hand. I know all the things people say about beggars and I understand those, but sitting here bedraggled and exhausted I couldn't get over the fact that this man had lost his legs and at the end of the day where did he go? Who took care of him? He broke my heart. I've seen so many people like him before, everywhere I've gone of course there are people physically broken by accidents and disease--but I have never sat for an hour and watched. There was no lesson I could take away that justified the irony of him begging at a track meet. It was heavy and it still feels heavy. By the time Gibran came to get me I had tears streaming down my face and I was embarrassed to tell him why. He laughed a little but then he said "Tu tienes un corazon muy noble." This is my Good News:

This is a mural hanging in the municipal building in Cholula Puebla.


It is labeled, "Fundacion de Cholula" "The foundation of what?" I asked Gibran. He pointed out what Quetzalcoatl is holding in his hand--a sheet of metal. "The foundation of metal," he replied. "According to the legend, He taught the people to write their story. On metal plates." He added, "People say He's just one of the Gods of the old world now, but we know the truth..."

Seeing it hit me so hard my knees buckled. I know it won't be as powerful for you, this dingy picture online, but it was a beautiful moment for me to see the mural and what it was depicting when many of the people who walk past it every day don't understand...it was like a piece of home. My Savior does not esteem the people of one nation more than another. He came for the broken and the lost, He died for people who have been given everything and wasted it, and for people who have never had anything. He is the true Light of our world, our only and every hope.
D y C 133:53: "En todas las afliciones de ellos, el fue afligido. Y el angel de su presencia los salvo; y en su amor y en su clemencia los redimio, los sostuvo y los llevo todos las dias de la antiguedad."

Song Sung Red White and Green

This goes out to all those well-meaning homies of mine who tried to warn me about biiiig, baaaad, D.F (Mexico City), home to 19.2 million people, most of whom (according to varied sources) are cold-hearted, bloodthirsty gangbangers who specialize in victimizing young blond girls from Utah. Sorry, guys, but it was totally NBD. Not the wretched hive of scum and villainy everyone depicted it as. I made it through the airport and all the way to Puebla on the bus without being the victim of (or viewing any) kidnappings, stabbings, beheadings, shootings, robberies or other delinquent behavior. In fact, I’ve been in the country for 3 days now and haven’t even been molested yet, which indicates that Mexicanos are a little more self-controlled/respectful than the citizens of some other cities I could mention (*cough*Bucharest!) where I’d been off the plane 10 seconds and the guys were getting fresh.

The malatero who helped me with my bags at the airport told me I didn’t have to tip him. “My country receives so much help from yours,” he told me. “It’s a privilege to serve you, don’t worry about the money.” YES, I tipped him, durrr! Maybe he only said that to get a better tip, but however you look at he didn’t cheat me, right? He also, miraculously, helped me skip all the lines at customs (aduana) so I was out of there en el abrir y cerrar de un ojo! (in the blink of an eye!) The trip to Puebla was pleasant, mostly because I sat next to the most amicable Testigo de Jehova I have ever met in my life. We had a great conversation sprinkled with Biblical references. I totally appreciated the lack of wrath. I remember writing an email home about the arrival to Iasi almost 4 years ago and I’m realizing that, for some reason, coming to Mexico has felt kind of natural. Taking that ancient train out of Buch into the black forest felt like we could be driving off the edge of the world. The first few days I felt like I was being smacked in the face with the frying pan of foreignness; all the familiarity was stripped away and it was exhilarating. There is something so appealing about the idea of being out of my own world. I don’t feel that rawness here, but I do see thousands of things that make me smile and my heart does a little Yo-ha dance every time I remember I’m here at last!

Puebla is very different from Sonora; in San Carlos and Guaymas there are a lot of touristy things directed towards Americans and you don’t see any of that here. The houses in the colonia where I live are like the ones I saw in Guaymas; brilliantly colored and equipped with an equally brightly painted gate that you unlock before entered the courtyard in front of the house. It’s been heartbreakingly cold the last two days, tragically overcast and rainy. I asked some friends who are from this area what the weather was like and they told me it could get chilly…I didn’t like that answer so I blithely chose to hope that they were crazy and that I would find myself in a sauna-like jungle. Not so much, although, I have reason to believe that the winter will go easier on me than on all y’all in Utah. :) However, the buildings here don’t tend to have insulation or central heating, so I guess we’ll see who suffers more.
So, now that I’ve mentioned Romania about 80 times, this might be a good time to bring up that fact that I wanted to try to avoid comparing this experience to Romania…but there are so many little things that trigger my Iasi memories here! All of the bathrooms, for instance, smell exactly like the entryway to Podul de Fier (as in, well…faci), cigarettes and car exhaust also smell like they did in Romania, milk and juice comes in boxes, everyone stares at me with muddled expressions of bewilderment ranging from irritation to lust, and there is rampant PDA everywhere. All of these little details embedded here remind me of the girls I was with in Romania and make me wish I had Liz or Megan or Cassidy here with me to be new and get lost and make mistakes together. Instead I am a solo sister once again.  Haha, but we all know I can do that and rock it, right? Right?


I know it can be terrifically boring reading all the minute details of someone’s trip, but I had to tell y’all that I got here on the Mexican Independence Day and it was the perfect day to arrive! Some friends of my good friend Cristina picked me up from the bus station and we went party-hopping that night. We went swimming in a huge building that used to be a textile factory but has been used exclusively for sweet parties ever since it closed down. In the back of the building there was a program going on and while we were there eating tacos del pastor (ahhh rica!) we saw a fashion show with typical Mexican styles (all fierce!), some little kids doing the Mexican hat dance, and (my favorite) Mariachi Estrella, which is considered the best Mariachi band in the city of Puebla. I love the Mexican culture so much, but there are some things that just make laughter bubble up inside me and so I smile very broadly so that giggling out loud will not necessitate explaining to anyone that I find what is going on just a little ridiculous. Mariachi bands are one of those things that are hard for me to take seriously; men dressed in 3 Musketeers uniforms with enormous sparkly sombreros, playing accordions, guitars and trumpets. But the best is the way that they SING! I can’t describe it, it’s this passionate warble and even when they have amazing voices it’s just so cheesy for me. I love it; I really do, so I hope this doesn’t sound insulting to anyone. Anyway, the lead singer of this group was called El Osito Polar (the Polar Bear), and he turned out to be an older gentleman with an enormous booming voice and stomach. Jaja. He was super dramatic and worked the crowd like a champ singing patriotic songs of Mexico (these songs all must make mention of the Virgen de Guadalupe, of course). Every once in awhile when the music was really upbeat he would do a little booty shake to accompany the men singing the chorus. I LOVED HIM! That was one of the moments when I really wished I had someone from home with me to appreciate the moment, he was truly too much, it was perfect. See? Aren't they the steeze?


Later that night we went to dar el Grito (give the Shout) in the centro of a city outside Puebla. On the 15th of September at 11 PM everyone participates in el Grito led by a town official. Basically the shout consists of repeating “VIVA!” after the official says, “VIVA MEXICO!” and some other things. At the end of the shout, everyone yells “VIVA MEXICO!” several times and then everyone bursts into the national hymn of Mexico. Following the hymn there is a massive fireworks show. The streets were teeming with ecstatic and frenzied people, there was so much energy that I felt absolutely elated and it wasn’t even my holiday! (I was having a lot of fun with the guys I was with, as well, my Spanish kicked in again Morena style and it was nonstop laughter. We got the colors of the Mexican flag painted on our faces, ven? You might have to click on it to make it bigger.


I wish I could have taken pictures of all the people there packed together like at a concert. Everyone was blowing special noise-makers that are the colors of the flag, people were spraying foam on each other, there were street vendors selling flags and t-shirts, jewelry and hats all in the colors of the red white and green. Men were carrying their little kids on their shoulders and the children had flags in both their hands. Lots of people were drinking; one lady passed out and was being trampled by the crowd so she had to be carried out by the paramedics. It was all insane. We pushed and elbowed our way to the middle so we could have a good view of the fireworks. They literally shot off the roof only a few feet above the crowd, showering all the people with sparks; one green spark fell right in front of me and took a few seconds to fizzle out. I’m pretty sure a couple of people lost an eye, but it didn’t matter because everyone was so happy and screaming VIVA MEXICO! It was absolutely nuts! Then the roof caught on fire from some of the fireworks! That is not a joke! I thought that was the best thing ever, I mean the roof was literally on fire! Some bomberos put it out and everyone kept singing and shouting like there was no manana. It was absolute bliss. Then when it was all over everyone tried to leave at the same time and that was madness because nobody could move. We managed to scramble over to a nearby paleta store (ice cream) and had dragonberry ices while we waited for the crowd to disperse. It was a perfect night. The Fourth of July has nothing on that, let me tell you.

Wow, I got so excited writing about the Grito that I forgot how long I had made this post. TMI? Convoluted? Sorry. My point is that I’m safe, happy, and learning so much! Tomorrow I will write a little about JUCONI and my assignment here, I love it already. I’m thinking about joining the Peace Corps so I can do this thing forever. Ciao pues! Leave me comments b/c I don’t have many friends here yet and I need to have lots of attention or I’ll just DIE! Kidding. Kind of.

Dia de Gozo, Luz y Paz: Echo of Glory!

This beautiful family is the Familia Sosa-Ibarra from Vera Cruz, Mexico. They are one of the miracles of my mission, and on 9/6/08 I had the privilege of being present for their sealing in the Houston Texas temple. Before I left for Houston in 2005, my Grandfather took me out for lunch and gave me some wise and sweet counsel regarding missionary work. He told me that if was a righteous messenger and bore pure testimony, I would have no idea the effect it could have on people, maybe even years later. He told me that there would be a feeling of glory that came to me whenever I taught a good lesson, saw an investigator progressing, or came home at the end of the day knowing I'd used every hour serving my Savior. He explained that the feeling of glory would reverberate through all the years in my life and echo back to me the goodness of God long after my mission was over.

I know that relatively, I haven't been home that long, but I felt an echo of glory so clear and powerful this weekend being at the temple with my converts! I never dared to hope too hard that this day would come because sometimes the path is so littered with disappointments, but the Lord granted me and Hermana Giles this treasured day to go back to Texas and go through the temple with this sweet family. One of the reasons their sealing meant so much to me was that the Sosas were never a typical golden family who accepted the gospel readily and easily. They had experienced some serious darkness and turbulence in their lives, everything from addictions to domestic abuse to jail time to infidelity to gang activity. Someday I want to unfold the whole story but it's complicated (and LONG)...What I really want to say is that I've never seen anyone change so much, unexpectedly and brilliantly, and if I've ever seen a light come into someone's face, it was the mother in this family, Maria Pilar. When I met her she was a Testiga de Jehovah and absolutely wretched to teach. She was hostile, abrasive, and disagreed with everything we said. She was also a First Vision interrupter, which I'm sure some of you can appreciate is highly intolerable. :) I felt defensive around her because I didn't think she was giving the message a chance. Then one night Giles and I were teaching about the Plan of Salvation and when I taught about the Atonement I felt a brightness softly flooding the room without me even anticipating it or hoping for it. I looked at Pilar and Wendy sitting in front of me on the couch and suddenly felt it thud in my chest how precious they were to the Lord. As I spoke with new tenderness I saw tears shining in Pilar's eyes and suddenly she grabbed my arm and said, "Hermana Morena, God is speaking to me through you right now!" I gulped and asked, "What is he saying?" She explained that something we had taught that night had answered a doubt she had always had, and then she sat back on the couch with a soft smile on her face and told us, "I am convinced." From that point on she not only progressed, but she became ravenous for the good news and everything unfolded smoothbeautifully. There were so many miracles with that family that must have shaken the heavens just a little bit...I know every missionary who ever taught them felt it. They were being strangled by roots of the world, lost in the wilderness and the Good Shepherd knew exactly where the find them. It was a gift being with them in those precious first days of learning and changing, and to be gathered together with them now under the wings that heal.

Pilar asked me to be her escort when she went through the temple, and that was glorious for me because I felt like her missionary again, explaining things and pulling her forward. There was one very sweet moment in the waiting room upstairs right before we went into the (Spanish!!!) endowment session. Pilar was explaining some thoughts she had had during the first ordinance and she was overcome with tears. Giles and I were sitting at her feet dressed in white and when we both reached out to her she clenched our hands and said she was so happy to be in the temple with "her angels." We sat like that smiling up at her with our hands all together and it felt like heaven. Right then her husband, Sixto came out all dressed in white and they smiled shyly at each other. Sixto, who used to run from the house when we came over to teach, who once put on a gorilla mask and danced in front of us during a lesson, who I once described to C-Mar saying, "His mind is like a kaleidescope," was reverent and loving with his wife and children as they stood in front of the mirrors and saw their eternal family. It was so incredibly beautiful. I'll never forget how it felt to be with them that day. I am so grateful for knowing this family and for the Savior who put me in their path and allowed me to teach them when I had no idea what He had in mind for them. I was so naive and prideful and distrusting, but He knew them and called after them, and they heard His voice. I have been given in good measure, pressed down and shaken together (Luke 6:38). I know the whole story has not been written yet so I'm not trying to imply a "happily ever after" assumption, but this was a day of marvelous light and an echo of glory. SERIOUSLY SOOOOO BLESSED!!!! :)