That Was Easy

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Yes, please. I'd love an ice water."

The flight attendant on my plane from Costa Rica to Florida kept walking down the aisle asking each person to her left and right the same question, and I was left in my seat, floored at how easy the exchange had been.

There had been no inner panic. No quickly constructing words in Spanish to make a sentence that sounded like I actually spoke the language, that I was not merely a Gringa on vacation. No having the wrong word come out. And no repeated internal flagellation, after the words came out of my mouth, due to an incorrect pronunciation.

This funny little smile crept across my face.

And the single word that circled around and around in my brain:

Easy.

The previous fourteen months Every Single Thing About Communicating had been hard.

Because my love/hate dance with the Spanish language came into play. Every day.

In English, I love to create clever sentences. Use fun words. Words that get my point across in ways that make people smile. Or think.

But in Costa Rica, this is how any conversation with a Spanish speaker would go.

• I'd construct what I'd want to say in my head.
• In fact, that is how I fell asleep most nights. Constructing sentences that I knew I'd use the next day.
• Then, I'd pick the ten words out of that sentence that I didn't know how to say in Spanish, and try to replace them with words that I DID know how to say.
• Which generally boiled a thirteen word, cleverly stated sentence down to a three word, caveman-esque grunt sentence.
• But at least I could say it in Spanish! On a good day.

Or, I'd be on a walk by myself where I'd pass a coffee shop and think, "I want something yummy to drink."

And I'd think of exactly what I'd need to say to order.

But then I'd panic.

What if the barrista went off script? What if they asked me a question that I didn't understand?? Or what if they didn't understand MY pronunciation? What if we just stood there in an awkward standoff of misunderstanding??

Forget it.
I'll make coffee when I get home.
Or maybe not even then.
Maybe I hate coffee.
And never want to drink it again.
(That last sentence would last only until the next morning, when I would come out of my bedroom desperately in need of caffeine, apologize profusely to the coffee pot and gratefully stroke the smooth warmth of my freshly filled orange mug)

Everywhere I went, I'd read the signs in Spanish. Trying to expand my vocabulary. Words on packaging in the grocery store. My shampoo bottle each morning. Signs on each store that I'd pass each time I took the bus.
(Let's talk about the mind-trip that my brain is currently having as I can't get out of the habit of doing that up here in Nova Scotia, and everything is in French. My brain is fritzing on a daily basis as I look at something and think, "Wait. I thought the word for that was.... Oh, right. Canada. Not Costa Rica.")

And on the airplane, her question was easy.

The answer was easy.

English was easy.

So, That Was a Mistake

Mom & I were going to do an errand. And the store is less than a mile away, so I happily said, "I'll walk!"

Walking was part of my daily life in Anonos, and I got used to it. And liked it. Most of the time.

I stepped out the front door, and the cold took my breath away.

Literally, I could not catch my breath.

When it finally returned, the first inhale froze all of my nose hairs.

Four steps from the door, I knew I had made a mistake in choosing to walk.

But I am no quitter.

So I continued.

My face stung.
My legs were numb.
My fingers were freezing.
The sidewalks were icy.

I picked my way down the sidewalks until they weren't even plowed any more.

My options were:
Walk through snowdrifts three feet deep
or
Walk in the road.

And suddenly, there was Mom in the car.

I climbed in.

And I cried.

Because it was like a physical reminder of the emotional stuff raging in my head and heart right now.

Everything.
Is.
Different.

Two weeks ago I was living in a place that is thirteen inches from the sun.

Where sweat was a part of daily life.

And sunburns.

And sitting in front of fans, longing for the cold of winter in New England.

And this arctic blast is just another reminder that I'm not the same person I was before Costa Rica.

Including my thinned out blood.

(Disclaimer... when I got home, I found out it is -15... and that didn't include the windchill. I don't care who you are, or where you're from. That's cold.)

Quality Time With Jesús

On our last morning in Nicaragua, I took a long walk on the beach.

My heart was full as I thought back to last year's morning walk on the same beach. My head was in a totally different place last year, and I couldn't stop thanking Jesus for the work He'd done in my life during 2013.

I settled down onto the sand to watch the waves before heading back to the hotel, when out of the corner of my eye I saw him.

A man, also walking down the beach.

"Keep walking, buddy," I encouraged him in my head.

But, no.

Over he walked, until he was standing directly in between me and the peaceful waves.

"I am going to practice my English," he said.

"Fabulous," I thought.

"What is your name? And what are you doing here?"

"My name is Lindsay, and I'm here in Nicaragua on a mission trip..."

And then I got a great idea for kindly and cleverly ending this conversation:

"But right now I'm spending some time with Jesus," I said.

His face lit up.

And with much flare, he drew out his crumpled ID card from his pant pocket and shouted - -

"I AM JESÚS!"

Of. Course. You. Are.

Because I forgot I was in Central America.

And also forgot that is how my life works.

Every.
Single.
Time.

He then proceeded to excitedly share with me what he looks for in women, and also what features he finds most attractive.

After hearing enough of his practiced English profanity, I put my earbuds in and watched as he continued to charade what he finds attractive in women, while Jeremy Riddle belted out worship songs inside my head.

Jesús finally became bored with this one-sided conversation, and continued on down the beach.

And I put my head in my hands.

And then I smiled, as I thanked him for his place in my life's chapter called "It's Hard to Walk Unnoticed With a Target on Your Forehead."

Happy New Year

With a heart full of thanks for the open arms that welcomed me home.

Happy New Year, my friends!

Mashed Potatoes

Last night during our worship time, I was distracted and frustrated and sad.

It has been a hard couple of days, as I come off the high of the Nicaragua trip and stare at the reality of sorting and packing up the last fourteen months of my life.

After singing a few songs, Chris prayed a simple prayer. "God, we bring you our worship tonight."

And I thought,

"God.
My worship tonight is so small.
And gross.
And mushy.
I feel like all I'm bringing tonight for worship is a handful of mashed potatoes."

And His quiet voice answered back,

"Mashed potatoes are my favorite."

How loving is my God?

Oh, Nicaragua

The mission trip to Nicaragua was amazing.

Exhausting.

Exhilarating.

Energizing.

Our first night at the camp, we had a time of worship, and as we sat there singing I looked over in the corner of the sanctuary to where I had been last year:

It had been late at night, and someone was praying over me - - 

speaking words of worth, beauty and identity into my life 

and I was sobbing on the floor 

unable to accept. 

Desperately wanting to, 

but choosing instead to believe the lies.

Just.

Like.

Always.

But this year as I sat in the room and looked at my life, it was different.

This year has been a year of finding freedom.
Finding victory over lies.
Choosing each new day to accept the truth of what Jesus says about me.
Walking in my identity of who I am in Him.

So that night I threw my hands up in worship.

And then quietly reminded myself that the same God who has brought all these beautiful changes in my heart and thought process, is the same God who knows what my next chapter will hold.

And some of my fear for the future started to dissipate.

During our three days in Tipitapa, I massaged over 80 people... 

Our first morning I told the team, "No kids." 

Massages solely for adults.

And then.

Her Dad begged me. 

"She has pain in every joint."

She was too tiny for my chair, so I got down on the ground and drew her onto my lap.

She nestled in, and each time I'd say

"Does it hurt here?"

She'd look at me with her huge, pain-filled brown eyes and nod her head.

We sat.

And I massaged. 

And prayed.

And loved.

And felt my heart break for the things that break His heart.

There were 31 people on our team.

These are the ones representing Anonos.

My heart exploded just a bit at the honor of being part of this picture.

A Few Funnies

On Sunday, we had a second Thanksgiving meal with some Tico and Nico friends. After dinner, Les had us go around the table and each say three things that we were thankful for.

Then he asked each one of us what one goal for our coming year is.

When it was my turn, Jose yelled "MATRIMONIO!"

Way to have a girl's back, Jose!

---------- * * * ----------

The majority of the bus drivers in San Jose seem to be under the impression that they are midnight drag racers in pimped out cars, careening down empty streets, when in reality they are maneuvering gigantic vehicles through ridiculously crowded streets.

And I've often wondered, as buses pass each other with 1/16th of an inch to spare, what happens when there are bus accidents.

As of Monday, I know longer have to wonder.
This is what happens:

            The drivers yell a lot.
                      The passengers look on in bored annoyance.
                                One bus backs up and tries to free itself of the other bus.
                                          Another small collision.
                                                    More yelling.
                                                              More backing up.
                                                                        Freedom for the bus.
                                                                                  Eye rolls from the passengers.

                                                            ---------- * * * ----------

David and I were walking through the community last week, and passed a high place that drops off sharply, providing a stunning view of Los Anonos.

And he told me that he's so afraid of heights, that whenever he even just thinks about them, his hands start to sweat.

Less than sixty seconds later, we came across some guy's 9 foot pet boa coiled in the middle of the road, hissing angrily.

The owner picked it up and carried it away before we walked by, but as we turned the corner David looked over to see the tears on my face.

"What?!" I said. "My eyes sweat when I get scared."