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every day is a good day Sandy’s Adventures in Guatemala • 2015

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every day is a good daySandy’s Adventures in Guatemala • 2015

cover photo by lisa pangburn

GUATEMALA

GUATEMALA CITY

MONTERRICOEl Dormido

RIO DULCECuatro Cayos

Nacimiento

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Selfie on the plane from

Miami to Guatemala City

with Allison and Tara

Pastor David Alvarez met us at the airport with his crew of really

helpful guys

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The view from Centro Cristiano Cultural de Guatemala Church.

This is a volcano... the top is hiding in the clouds

Boston to Miami to Guatemala City to MonterricoThursday

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Packing our bags on top of the van for our drive to Monterrico. Despite all the tarps, they still got wet. :)

Patty takes in the beauty of this place.

The church’s large meeting room overlooks the city.

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monte

rrico

From the third floor of the retreat center in Monterrico, we had a front row view of the Pacific Ocean and the black sand beach. The roar of the waves was the constant soundtrack of our time here.

Hammocks... a whole room full of hammocks.

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Our Monterrico team from CCCG. (L-R) Issey, Carlos, Jacob, a lovely lady whose name I can’t remember,

Courtney, Diego and, I think, Issey’s son.

On Friday, after breakfast, we sorted the dresses made by dear CCOD women,

then set out for El Dormido for our

first eye clinic and VBS.

Setting up the eye clinic in less than ideal conditions.

See how hot it was? Poor Zack...

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El Dormido Friday

Lindsey and the children of El Dormido sit on the steps of the latrines. It was NOT fun going potty here. We had to have help holding up the doors.

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My eye screening cheat sheet.

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ClarityIt’s Friday, day two, and Lisa, Terry and I gather

around Zack for a crash course in pre-testing for

the eye exams. Courtney teaches us a few Spanish

phrases so we can ask some basic questions. I think

I have the words down, but when a real human stands

in front of me with real needs, looking at me like

I know what I am doing, my mind goes blank and

I lose all coherent thought.

Thankfully, Jacob is with us and he translates and

asks all the right questions while I dumbly hold the

card with the E’s pointing every which way. Zack

is the real hero here, finding prescriptions, fitting

glasses, giving little old ladies the gift of clear sight

for the first time in their lives and middle-aged men

the joy of being able to read again. But in the midst

of a long line of people, God gives me a gift.

“She says sometimes when she reads everything

is perfectly clear and other times it’s all a blur.” We

stand stumped for a moment wondering if perhaps

she just needs eye drops, when suddenly it hits me.

“Ask her how old she is.”

I think back to when I was 41 and my vision began

going haywire. It felt like there were rusty gears in

my eyes grinding as they tried to quickly shift focus

between far and close.

Sure enough, she is 39, and I hand her a pair of

readers with my condolences, secretly relieved that I

am an authority on something.

On Saturday Lisa does the pre-testing and she

is very good at it. On Monday, I inherit the job of

rummaging through bags of glasses from the Lion’s

Club, searching for pairs that are not ridiculous

holdovers from the 1970’s, watching people smile as

they put their new glasses on and take them off and

put them on again. I smile too. This job is a perfect fit.

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After we finished, we took a boat

to a small island in El Dormido that had been

recently devastated by flooding and

distributed dresses there. This was one of

my favorite places...such warm people

despite their hardship.

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Our team, plus a few sweet kids.

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We had the afternoon off for some needed rest. The pool was glorious and the beach was wild and dramatic with SUCH powerful waves.

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Pulling the Thread, Just Like Jen SaidIt’s a rainy night tonight—a torrential-coming-

down-sideways kind of rain.

CCCG’s retreat center in Monterrico is typical of

many structures here that make the outdoors part

of the living space. The building is shaped like a U

with a center courtyard graced by a pool and rising

palm trees. This is our dining room as well, with long

tables under the cover of the floor above us, but still

open to the world.

It offers little protection tonight and our meal is

interrupted as people run to get their Dollar Store

plastic ponchos. Everyone has wet feet, but those

sitting on the wrong side of the table also have rain

pouring down their backs. But we can’t complain—it

is bringing blessed relief from the oppressive heat.

Pastor David Alvarez invites us to pull our chairs

further into the shelter of the building so we can

talk, but we still have to shout over the downpour.

He tells us about himself many years ago—a young

man, feeling a call from God to minister to children

and bucking against it because, well, he didn’t like

kids. Leaning forward in his green plastic chair, he

speaks of the tiny church started in his home with

just a few couples. Those couples eventually had 22

children between them and the church’s ministry to

children was officially born.

As they taught their own, other kids followed and

it became apparent that they were not being

educated. So the little group became intentional

about schooling these young ones. Before long,

they noticed that the children were not thriving

despite their best efforts because they arrived at

school hungry.

The church began feeding them breakfast, and yet,

David says, they did not gain weight and were still

suffering. This led to the realization that many of

the children had parasites. And so, this small band

of believers began tending to the medical needs of

the children. And over time, their vision expanded

outward from Guatemala City into villages across

their country.

With moist eyes, Pastor David speaks of the

thousands of children who get breakfast every

other day and of the villages that now have middle

schools and high schools and their own children

who are grown and have taken up the mantle of

pastoring the church. And the hundreds of teams

that come to help and the financial support of

Rotary Clubs and American churches.

He talks about his church, still small, but incredibly

powerful because their culture is service and their

highest honor is to wash dishes and wait table

because they just might be pouring a drink for

Jesus, disguised as one of us.

But, David adds with a laugh, I still don’t really like

kids.

I think back to the study we recently finished in

our Sunday School class—“Pulling the Thread” by

Jen Hatmaker. She taught us that when we pull on

even just one thread, when we open our hearts in

obedience to just one thing our God is inviting us to

do, our carefully constructed lives begin to unravel,

one thing leads to another and suddenly we see our

world differently and obedience to God’s call starts

feeling less like a chore and more like an adventure.

Pastor David pulled one thread. He said “Yes” to

one thing and thousands are being blessed and

changed and introduced to the wild love of our God.

Not the least being these twelve wet gringos

ducking for cover, drenched by Grace.

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Guatemala CitySaturday and sunday

Mariale, the BEST translator ever!

Small group discussions

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Holly and I got up early on Saturday and Diego drove us back to Guatemala City for the women’s event. I called it a “Mini Retreat” because I shared a condensed version of my 2015 retreat materials, “Fearless Trust.”

Rosario. Or Rosaria... I can’t remember which!

Martha and Fabiola

MariaEmily

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After lunch, Byron gave Holly and me a city tour and we eventually met

up with the rest of our team at the market. Did some shopping.

Sweet dress for Hannah!

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Sunday: Church was a fabulous, 3 hour long time of worship. La Mujer

I live in the tension of opposing forces. One: I

enjoy practicing the gifts that God is unfolding in

me—gifts of teaching, speaking, writing and leading

women’s retreats and Bible studies. And two:

I know that I am one among many others who have

a similar worldview and similar talents. As long as

people are being led into the presence of Jesus,

I am happy. I don’t have to always be the person

leading them to Him. After all, this is His show,

not mine.

Early after I decide I am going to Guatemala, Zack

mentions that perhaps I might consider doing some

sort of event with the women at CCCG. He does

not bring it up again, and I decide that I will just go

and do whatever God puts in front of me and be

a servant and change toilet paper rolls and wash

dishes. Doing a retreat is impossible and I develop

a litany of reasons why it will not work. Surely these

women are already being fed. They do not need to

hear from me.

My friend Theresa is not impressed with my plan

and she lets me know in no uncertain terms that

I can NOT go all that way and not do something

with women. The next night I lay in bed, knowing

that God is keeping me awake. He begins making it

annoyingly clear that my reasons are not so noble

as I’m making them out to be. He’s good at that.

Turns out I am less concerned that they might not

need to hear from me and more concerned that

they might not want to hear from me.

“Fine,” I concede. “I will do this if You want me to, but

I need You to convince me that YOU want me to do

this.” Because I know His assurance is the only

thing that will quiet my heart about whether or not

they want it.

“La mujer.” It comes like a whispered thought in the

back of my mind as I search the scriptures to hear

His voice. I’m reading Isaiah, chapter after chapter,

and He is speaking through it, confirming Himself,

but over and over I keep repeating “La mujer. La

mujer.” A word I don’t know is tickling my brain like a

song that won’t leave. I know how to spell it, I know

how to pronounce it, but I don’t know what it means.

After hours, I finally pick up my iPad and find the

translation. “Woman.”

It’s three weeks later, and I am worshipping with 20

women who are, of course, singing and praying in

Spanish. I stand and speak through my translator,

Mariale, packing a weekend’s worth of teaching

and discussion into 3 short hours. More ladies are

trickling as the time ticks away, packing the small,

glassed-in patio to capacity. Children and a few

men hang at the edges, wandering in and out. Near

the end, I tell the story of “La mujer” and the act of

obedience that was being played out today.

Honestly, it’s hard for me to read this audience.

I see some nods, some smiles, some laughs, but

it is awkward to communicate with them as my

attention is divided between them and Mariale. As

I finish and pray for these women, I exit the center

knowing that I have done what God asked me to do

and satisfied with that, but unsure of the impact.

My kind, loving, merciful Father does not make

me wait. Rosario, the ladies’ leader, rises and says

something and suddenly Mariale rushes to my

side to translate for me. Four or five women come

forward and speak to what God anchored in their

hearts today. The last is Emily, who turns and looks

at me.

“I am the woman. I am the reason God asked you

to do this,” she says through shining tears. She

explains her life, the crazy busy-ness of it, and her

fear of stepping even more deeply into God’s call

for her. “My warrior name is Courage,” she tells me

and I can see on her face that she means to live it.

And today that is my name, too.

Jacob & Pablo

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Rio DulceSunday night through Thursday morning we stayed at

Hotel Viñas del Lago on the shores of Lake Izabal. It was a great home base. And it felt like Club Med.

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Allison and I chug down our “magic potion” in hopes that our intestinal issues will be healed and the team heads out to the site of the new retreat center in Rio Dulce. Most everyone works on the hole for the septic system, but thankfully, there is a job I can do... bending steel rods

into squares that will support the rebar that goes in the concrete walls.

Rio Dulce Retreat Center Monday a.m.

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Roberto and Ingrid’s home in Rio Dulce. We ate our lunches here.

Papayas!

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Cuatro Cayos monday p.m.

Loved this lady!

Bags and bags of glasses...

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inconvenienceThey said we’d be helping with the feeding

programs in several villages. We’d have to

leave by 4:30 a.m. so we would be there

to make and serve the children breakfast

before school. But the teachers are on strike,

which means no school. Which means no

feeding program. Instead we sleep until 7:00,

eat breakfast in the little restaurant that is

hosting us, then head out to the work site

for the new retreat center being built here in

Rio Dulce.

We stand around a hole in the ground, which

will one day become a septic system, and

receive our instructions. We must dig through

the clay with pickaxes and shovels and then

haul what is removed with wheelbarrows to

a site about 20 yards away that needs fill.

A steady trail of ants has been crawling up

our legs and when they find bare skin, the

howling and twitching and slapping begins.

Sweat pours down the back of my neck

before I have even taken up a shovel and I

distinctly remember the conversation that

took place months ago in which I said to

Zack “I’ll be really useless when it comes

to most manual labor” and he assured me

there would be other things to do. I look in

the hole and wonder how I will be getting out

once I get in. Then again, it may be a moot

point. My teammates might just be wise to

leave me in the hole as I will be dead by the

end of the day anyway.

My life is saved as Zack yells to Terry and me

that we are “needed” on another job. He and

Roberto lead us back to an old wooden jig

and introduce us to another man who shows

us how to cut steel rods to length and then

bend them into squares and rectangles. I

don’t know what the squares and rectangles

are for, but I am so grateful for this job, which

feels more like a sweaty Pinterest project

than actual work, that I don’t bother to ask.

I overhear the chaos back in the hole—

pickaxes are flying and ants are biting and

one guy gets hit in the head with his own

shovel. It’s miserable in the hole and I start

thinking about how inconvenient it is for us

that the teachers chose this week to strike so

we couldn’t do what we came here to do.

“How inconvenient for us.”

The teachers in this country want more

money. I don’t know if they need more

money, but teachers are not usually the

greedy type, so it’s a safe bet to say their

request is likely justified.

The children are not going to school. They

are not receiving the educations they so

desperately need in order to have any

chance of escaping poverty. Not going to

school also means they are not receiving

breakfast. Many are not eating at all.

We finish our manual labor detail at 11:30

and head back to Roberto and Ingrid’s house

for lunch. The threat of rain means that our

afternoon trip to Cuatro Cayos might be cut

short because the road will quickly become

impassable, but we head out anyway. As we

drive along, Ingrid tells Enrique to stop the

truck and pick up the grandmother who is

walking with a large bundle of firewood on

her head and her two young grandchildren

who carry only slightly smaller loads. Two

more children wait 30 yards up the road

and Enrique invites them to join us as well.

But there is no more room for the third and

fourth families walking miles and miles with

their heavy loads.

We arrive at Cuatro Cayos and offer another

eyeglass clinic and spend more time with

the children, working until 5:00, long past the

4:00 deadline for us to be out of the village

for safety’s sake. Roberto is impatient and I

am irritated, wondering why he would hurry

us when there are so many who need these

glasses.

Roberto drives this time and asks us again to

pray for the rain to hold off because as soon

as he gets home he has to eat quickly, then

turn and trek back across the dangerous

terrain to get needed supplies out to more

villages. After a day of digging the hole with

us, serving us lunch, riding in the cattle car

to Cuatro Cayos, translating for Zack and

driving us back for dinner, he still has many

more hours of work. He won’t be resting until

10 or 11 and he will get up tomorrow and do

the same thing all over again.

This is not his job—this is his life. There is no

separation between the two. And he gives his

whole self to it gladly and without complaint.

The next day, as we drive back from

Nacimientos, he asks me how I liked the

village. “Wonderful people.” I say. “It was a

good day.” He looks me square in the eye,

which makes me uncomfortable for more

reasons than the fact that he is driving. “No,”

he tells me. “Every day is a good day.” And

he means it.

And I sit in a stew of sweat and sweet shame

for the rest of ride home to our bountiful

meal and air-conditioned hotel and luxurious

pool, making a mental list of things I will not

be complaining about ever again. I hope.

Josh with the kids at VBS, ladies with bundles of firewood, and crops of African palm trees, used for

making palm oil.

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This is the reason we were praying that it would not rain. Any more water and we could

not have crossed here.

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Rio Dulce Retreat Center tuesday a.m.

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I further developed my rectangle making skills. The photo above

shows how they are used to tie together

lengths of rebar. Allison, Esther, Patty and Marianne show

just how sweaty they are as take a break

from digging the hole.

Not bad for two

hours of work!

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Nacimiento tuesday p.m.

A little pig laid down in a mud puddle in the road in front of us.

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The drive to Nacimiento was BREATHTAKING. We rode along a ridge between steep valleys and at some points we could see Lake Izabal far to the south.

Again, we did an eye clinic and a VBS with the kids. It was harder to communicate here because this is a Mayan village, so everything had to be translated first to Spanish and then to the Mayan language.

This lady watched us through the window all afternoon.

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Lisa made certain to find an especially attractive pair of glasses for Courtney.

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The sun was just beginning to set as we headed for home.

Made for a lovely drive.

Saying goodbye and taking some last photos.

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It was Lindsey’s birthday and Ingrid surprised her with a cake that was so perfectly

what she would have wanted, it made her cry.

TARANTULA!!!

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The hole, as we left it.

I was sick and had to stay back at the hotel, so

Patty took over my job.

Rio Dulce Retreat Center

Wednesday a.m.

I was sick and had to stay back at the hotel, so

Patty took over my job.

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Castillo de San Felipe de Lara wednesday p.m.

The Castillo de San Felipe de Lara is a Spanish colonial fort at the entrance to Lake Izabal. The rest of the team spent a sweaty afternoon touring the fort. I was still not feeling great, so I stayed back.

Apparently this place was not built with Zack in mind.

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High CallingsSome of the sweetest moments in this trip happen in the evenings when we

sit down together and recap the day, remembering both the high points and

the low points, the joys and the sorrows.

Lindsey always speaks of the children, which makes sense. She loves them

and they love her blond hair, her blue eyes, and her contagious warmth and

they regularly attach themselves to her hands and legs.

Tonight she expresses frustration with the language barrier. She wishes

she could understand their questions and their jibber-jabber with each

other. But her face eases as she remembers a quiet moment seated on the

ground with a little one’s head on her lap. While she stroked the child’s hair,

brown eyes looked upward and held her gaze and a little hand reached her

face and brushed lightly over her skin. In that moment, she tells us, there

was no language barrier—they were both speaking the common tongue of

tenderness, love and grace.

I, too, have been frustrated by our inability to communicate. How can we

express to them that God sees their lives and loves their hearts and wants

a relationship with them if all we can do is count to 14 and ask where the

bathroom is located?

But as Lindsey speaks, I remember the passage in Mark 10 that I happened

upon last night. “‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,

for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these’. . .and he took the children

in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.”

He put his hands on them and blessed them.

It strikes me that He did not seat them and hand out coloring papers,

explaining points of theology and singing songs about what the Bible does

or does not say. There is nothing wrong with those things, in fact there is

something vital about those things, but they are not what Jesus chose to

do. Jesus chose to make physical contact and pronounce them worthy of

the affection of the God of the universe.

When Lindsey runs her fingers through a little child’s hair, when Patty and I

hold the hands of a young girl as she lifts her legs off the ground to swing

between us, as we let them choose a new dress or an airplane, or when

Marianne kicks the soccer ball with them and Tara and Allison paint flowers

on their faces, we are doing what Jesus did.

We are placing our hands on them and blessing them and participating in

the highest of callings—the call to love without reservation.

On our last evening in Rio Dulce we treated ourselves to some french fries and sodas at the hotel restaurant.

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Back to Guatemala City ThursdayWe stopped on the bridge over the Rio Dulce for some photos. We might be smiling, but it was actually a sad, hard drive back. Our time was finished much too soon.

“Mi fuerza! Mi Guate!”

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Stopped at Pollo Campero for lunch, then the van had a flat, so we hung out in a grocery store while the tire was changed. Esther shared some “choco bananas.”

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Somehow no one got photos of our last night in Guatemala City except this one of me and Emily, which I treasure.

I’m not surprised. Our last meal with the pastors of the church and with the team who served us seemed somehow holy. Fabiola sat next to me and I was comforted by her sweet presence as I struggled to take in these last few memories.

Pastor David invited us to share our favorite moments from the week and then he blessed us with kind words of thanks and encouragement.

I am so grateful for these people, for the chance to serve in some small way and for my team who I love like family. God is good to us.

CourageAll the children, pressing close to us, hanging from our arms

and all the lines of people waiting for glasses, hoping for new or

renewed vision and yet the thing that stands out most to me

are the people who travelled with us. People of Centro Cristiano

Cultural de Guatemala Church and other visiting missionaries

who arrange their lives so that they can serve.

Serve us, serve the people in the villages, serve each other.

There was not a bag I lifted that was not soon taken up by

one of these humble people who appeared out of nowhere

and insisted that I allow them to bear my burden. Plates of

food were brought out and removed with the precision of a

restaurant. My cup was only empty if I asked for it to be. “No

mas” was the word of the week because they always wanted to

give us more.

It is humbling to be served by a real servant.

I don’t want to romanticize their lives. I know it’s not always

easy for them. I know this isn’t some idyllic place where every

heart is magically content to be busy all the time. Emily made

clear to us ridiculousness of her schedule when she spoke after

the retreat. Her children, her job, her husband, her church, her

home—the demand is constant and overwhelming. She has

spent months struggling with a request from her pastors to

take on leadership of a cell group, stressed by the prospect of

adding this huge task to everything else in her busy life.

And yet, when she hears me tell her “The Lord is with you,

mighty warrior” and when she hears Him call her “Courage,”

she decides she can trust Him enough to say “Yes.”

Truly, to be a servant requires great courage. Courage to set

aside my own rights, my own importance, my own comfort and

take up the privilege of doing the menial and the overwhelming.

Courage to choose to see the needs of others when I am

exhausted by my own needs. Courage to serve with joy and

compassion and to envision every act as one done for the God

who did All for us.

This is the Kingdom of God: mutual service, being in this with

each other not 50/50 but 100/100, giving everything to others

as they in turn give everything to us.

Special thanks to Esther Littlefield, Zack Cain, Lisa Pangburn,

Caleb Smith and Holly Littlefield for the use of your wonderful

photos in addition to my own.

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perspectiveMay I never complain again

that it is too hot

that it is too cold.

May I never complain

that my home is not big enough

or comfortable enough

or fancy enough.

May I never again stand in front of my full refrigerator

complaining that I can’t decide what to have for lunch.

May I never complain about

the state of our roads

or the length of our traffic lights

or the craziness of our drivers

Or that my car is too old

or the wrong color.

May I never complain

that my shower is too weak

or that my water makes my white clothes slightly yellow.

May I never again wonder whether Jesus loves me.

May I never again ask Him to prove it.

May I see my life and every day I live it and everything I have

as gifts that not everyone gets.

Gifts I was meant to share.

May I see that, indeed, every day is a good day.