Our Most Recent Trip to Costa Rica

Daniel watching planes at the Panama airport

It is a Wednesday afternoon, and I am packed and ready to drive to get on a plane with my 14-month-old. It is our first trip of the year, fifth work trip together. Expert in traveling with a toddler that I am, I am very proud of my ability to fit all of his junk and all of my junk in a carry-on. I even have my flat iron to do my hair (because since I never use it at home, somehow I am convinced that at someone else's house, in between work sessions, I will magically find the time to finally get my unruly mane under control). I am planning on checking the bag, nonetheless, because I still haven't figured out how to pull a suitcase and push a stroller.

We get checked-in, and I kiss the husband goodbye. For some reason, it looks like things have changed. Usually, they let us women with babies go first, but not this time. I have to wait in line like all the other mortals, pushing the baby. Finally we made it to the window where I have to pay my exit tax. I pay, not without almost passing out because the fee has tripled since my last trip. I finally make it to the security checkpoint. And then, I start the process. With the baby in the stroller, I pull my computer out and place it in a bin. Then, I take shoes off and whatever else I must put on the other bin. I then place the baby on the belt, fold the stroller, and place my bag. It is at this point that the security guard tells me, "m'am, you can't be on this end... you must move to the other line." Contrary to wisdom, instead of just complying with what an airport security agent tells me, the cumulative stress and frustration of two years of dealing with baby stuff, comes out and I just reply. "NO I WON'T". And he says "you must go through the other line. " And I reply, "I'M NOT MOVING ALL MY STUFF." We argue for a couple minutes, and I find out they have one line for men and one for women, because there is only one woman security agent that could check me. So, I leave all my stuff there, and walk through the other gate.

Daniel being pampered at the tia abuela's house

All hassle aside, we made it to the plane and arrived in San Jose at almost midnight our time. I stayed at my cousin's house, and got to spend the next day with family. I got to meet the newest member of that clan, baby Sofi, and I had a lot of fun chatting it up after dinner with my aunt and cousins. This is one of the perks of traveling to a city where I have family. I have been going to Costa Rica for the last two years, about twice a year, and it has been amazing to be able to have a little family time. I love that the boys have gotten a little abuelita love from my aunt there.

The next morning, we drove up to the regional director's house for meetings for the next three days. It was a time of sharing what miracles we had seen God do during 2014. It was a time of sharing about how ministry is going in each country. It was a time to start praying about the future and how do we move forward with the mission of reaching teenagers. We got to go to a local club one night, and then the next night we got to be part of a day camp that the Camp on Wheels had set up for one of the communities. What an exciting thing to see hundreds of teenagers having fun with their friends and getting a chance to hear the gospel.

Dreaming and planning

We left at 1:45 am on Monday morning, to catch our 4:30 flight. I was not looking forward to spending four hours at the airport with a baby, but we made it. Our flight home was delayed an hour, since they had to do some repairs, but both baby and mom were so tired, that I think we did not notice and slept the whole time. At last, we were home and we spent last week settling back in, retaking our routine, and planning for the next adventure that comes in two weeks! So, stayed tuned for the next trip.

The Theologian, My Friend

Almost two weeks ago, I learned that Dr. Emilio Antonio Nuñez, had passed away. If you are not familiar with the name, Dr. Nuñez was a Salvadorian theologian and pastor. He was a pioneer and a key influence in the development of Evangelical theology in Latin America. Born in 1923, he dedicated his life to ministry as a professor, pastor, and writer. 


It was not long before a series of posts and comments began pouring through social media. It was obvious he had made a profound impact on his students and the different congregations where he had preached. It was also the first time that I read about all his work. Looking at all those different achievements summarized in different ways, I realized what an important man for his generation he had been. Because, I had no idea. I guess I sort of knew he was like a big deal, but I really did not know.

I have yet to read one of the books he wrote. I never took any of his classes. I may have heard one of his lectures at some point, not sure. So, my experience with him comes from a different place. I probably first met him as an infant, because my parents had attended SETECA (Central America Theological Seminary) in Guatemala, which he helped found, later becoming the president and afterward a professor. I remember visiting el viejito, as mom liked to call him, and his first wife, doña Sarita, on numerous occasions as a little girl. Later, I remember running into him at the hallway in SETECA, where mom worked. Our encounters were mostly brief, usually a simple exchange, where I would say, "Don Emilio." "Rebe," he would respond. Sometimes we would hug. Mostly we just nodded at each other.

As brief and fleeting most of those times were, I remember very vividly the day he told me about how he got married. I must have been thirteen or fourteen. He had this pragmatic and matter of fact way of telling the story, and I don't remember all the details, perhaps because I was trying so hard to conceal the fact that my mouth was wide open. He was twenty; she was thirty, and she pretty much proposed. (What?) And just when I thought this viejito had shattered all my stereotypes, he went on to talk about how she was always ready to clip the wings of his ministry pride, at which point she chuckled - she was sitting right next to him, holding his hand, all that time.

When I graduated from high school, I got a gift from them. When I first opened it, I must confess I felt a little disappointed. It was a Bible. I loved them, and I was grateful they had thought about me on this joyous occasion, but someone needed to update them on coolness. It had a dedication, and together with the "congratulations...best wishes," it just read Psalm 37:3,4. So, I looked it up, and the words just blew me away. "Trust in the Lord... Delight yourself in the Lord." This had been a time when people had either praised my parents for their great work or me for my hard work. And there was this man, cutting to the chase. The heart of the matter is always a matter of the heart. Subtly and quietly, I got one of the most powerful invitations of my life. I am thirty-four. That has been the Bible I have used half of my life.

After his wife passed away, he came to eat lunch to our house very often. I wasn't around much, because I was away for college, but in one of those visits, he inadvertently made another powerful invitation. He was sharing how he loved learning about Latin American culture, how he made a point of every year reading the new and most read authors in the continent, so he could keep up with what was happening, what people were thinking. I could see this man did not just happen to live in Latin America; he lived Latin America. And that made a dent in my heart at a season when I was starting to see our culture's broken raw beauty. He invited me to love this land and ache for it.

But the Requiem of this friendship is that as I look back at the times of my life where he left a mark, I realize I was not part of his central ministry. I was not a student. I was not a professor. I was not a colleague. I was not even an adult. He had no reason to give me the time of day. I was one of the least of these for him. I think, in the end, his lauded wisdom and intellect sprung out of a quiet life of true love for Christ and for those around him - even those who wouldn't read his work; specially those who wouldn't read his work. So, my friend invites me once again to yet another challenge. As I look at myself busy with ministry that seems to be ever so important and pressing, as I strive to fulfill this calling and serve my generation, I am challenged to live life as an open invitation... and to give the time of day to those around me - especially the ones who don't know (and couldn't care less) about who the heck I am.

Driveway Moments

The last couple of weeks have felt a little bit crazier than usual. I have been feeling spent and trying to keep up the pace with all the different things that keep falling on my plate - none of them the piece of cake I have been craving all along! Because that is what I have been imagining during those stressful moments. Every evening, I find myself wanting to sit down and enjoy something sweet - brownies, or some sort of pie, maybe a cake. It is not just a sweet tooth antojo. I don't just want  to be able to enjoy a delicious piece of dessert; I have also been craving the energy-giving and soothing experience that baking is to me.

It hasn't always been that way.  Growing up, I had a love-hate relationship with the kitchen. My mom was the baker. She made some room for me early on as a helper, but when I reached my teenage years, I started to feel more like Daisy from Downton Abbey in Mrs. Patmore's kitchen. I wanted freedom to create! So, one Christmas season, I was given the freedom. I was in charge of making the sugar cookies. I don't remember exactly how things escalated, but I have this very vivid memory of my brothers sitting around the table, waiting for me to roll the dough, cookie cutters in hand, and me taking the dough, and just smashing that ball of goo on the floor screaming "this is (bleep)! Nothing (bleep) works out! we're gonna eat (bleep) because that's what this (bleep) is!" Mrs. Patmore walked in. The brothers gasped and gave me the is-this-good-bye-forever-sis? look. Mom picked up the dough, and said I was suspended from kitchen access for the day.

I would like to say that this was the only frustrating time in the kitchen, but things only got worse. Eventually, I was banned from all cooking at my house, only allowed in the kitchen to do my daily shift of dishes. It wasn't until I was away from home for college that I started venturing out and trying a few things here and a few things there. And then, after trying and failing, came trying and succeeding, and then doing and enjoying. Baking has become a place I go to when stressed out, when too tired, and when I have the extra time just for fun. I like being able to see something done, start to finish, and enjoy the final product.

I have been wanting to bake for the last ten days. The other day, I was busy cleaning the kitchen, hoping that once I was done I would be able to finally get to work, while listening to NPR. Between shows, there was a commercial where a soothing woman's voice (I wanted her voice, because mine sounds a lot like a frayed mom's voice) asked something like, "have you ever reached your destination and stayed in your car to finish listening to one of our shows? Have you waited five, ten, fifteen minutes before getting out of your car?... (I smiled, thinking guilty as charged). We call these driveway moments (clever, I thought), and we work hard to produce programing that makes you stop in your tracks."  And with that last phrase, I suddenly became aware of a truth deep within my heart.

When was the last time Christ stopped me in my tracks? When was the last time I just sat, enjoying a little bit more of a sermon, or just a little bit more of a verse, or just a little bit more of His creation? Because I am very good at many things, but being still in His presence is something that does not come naturally. There I was, standing rag in hand, trying to make some room for what? The comfort of my expertise. The comfort of something tried and true. The relief of some closure, something I can manage and control start to finish.

I work hard and harder at the things I do best. Because if I am succeeding at something, I don't have to pay attention to how tired I am. I don't have to see how isolated and homesick I feel. I don't have to see how afraid I am about raising two sons. I don't have to deal with the feelings of frustration, or envy, or contempt that I have for those around me. And often times, like Martha in the story, I wallow, and ask for help... ask Him for help, yet miss out on the best part of all.

I finished cleaning, but a baby cried. I have not yet found the time to bake this week, but tomorrow is the husband's birthday, so I will get around to it. I have been thinking about what do driveway moments look like for me, though. Can I linger five, ten, or fifteen more minutes when He shows me something, instead of frantically running to the next thing?

Ponche, Russian Tea, and Jengibre

Our very generous coconut tree

I type "Christmas decor ideas," and my screen fills up with images of evergreens in the snow, cozy cabins with fireplaces, and snowflakes. I look out the window, and I see the grass in our backyard full of coconuts that have sadly gone bad, because we're still not able to keep up with the amount produced by our tree. The passion fruit vine in our garden is loaded. Our neighbors are plowing their land to start planting in the next week. The thermometer inside my house says it's 74 degrees outside - such a cool day; I might even wear a scarf.

Things certainly do look a little bit different on the island. Since the husband is the more aplatano (literally plaintain-ified) in the house, he is the one who makes jengibre every night. Jengibre has become my favorite Dominican drink. It's a tea made of fresh sliced ginger and cinnamon.
However, as a true Guatemalan, what I really crave during this time is a little bit of ponche.  The quintessential Christmas drink, it's made of pineapple, apple, and other fruits brought to a boil with some spices and sugar. The husband doesn't really go for it. What he would have on any given afternoon during this season is Russian tea.

All three drinks will be available on Christmas day.

And so, our little multicultural family is learning how to pay attention to both old traditions and new. We now have three different cultures intertwining every single day. It's a complicated dance. And it is hard to keep up the pace of that dance. The husband has lived outside of his home country for eighteen years now, split between two countries. I have lived outside of my home country during 12 years, split between three different countries. The boys have been born in a country that is their own but not their parents'. It would be so much simpler to just pick one. We could choose to just keep one language at home, and focus on living out of just one culture. Yes, it would be a lot easier, specially because we would actually fit in somewhere.

Yet, if we chose the easy way, we would go unchanged. Our cultures would go unchallenged. I love Guatemalan culture. It is rich, and it is beautiful. However, I would be deceiving myself if I said it did not have its weak spots. Same goes for the other two cultures in this household. So, we are constantly pushed to think about what we say and do. Yes, we crack jokes in this house about each others' countries. We say our peace. We also ask tough questions. We enter deep conversations asking, 'why do they do this or that in the U.S. or in Guatemala?' 'Why do you think they do this or that here?' And the most beautiful part of the whole deal is that it will never be done. This tension will never be resolved. We will never arrived at an 'aha' moment or at a moment where we said we equally integrated the three or we came at a moment of comfort.

I have yet to learn a lot about island living. I am by no means an expert on Dominican culture or its history yet. I only hope that I will be able to walk within these cultures with honor and love.

Update on David's Health

We had a "fun" day in Santiago this week. It was time for David's six-week post-Kawasaki treatment echocardiogram to make sure his heart and associated blood vessels had not been damaged by the Kawasaki. Read this blog entry about his illness. I (Roy) had to get some dental work done and Rebeca had to have a little lab work done to follow up with a doctor's visit last week. We had a good plan we thought: get to Santiago about 10am, get the echo done, give a blood sample at the same hospital, get some lunch, do a little Christmas shopping, then go to the dentist. The plan didn't quite work out. My dental checkup ended up being dental surgery. The echo didn't happen until the time of my dental fun, so Rebeca had to handle alone both Daniel the explorer and David the uncooperative unhappy patient, then wait a couple of hours for my ordeal to end and for me to pick them up.

But the good news was worth it. David god a clean bill of health! His heart suffered no damage in his bout with Kawasaki. We are done giving him daily doses of aspirin and having him bleed and bruise more easily than normal. We had been pretty optimistic that this would be the result, but receiving it still was a burden released. We are thankful. Thank you for your prayers during this process!

Of Privilege and Entitlement

A few days ago, my brother wrote about the infamous car rides we endured as kids. I did not like riding in the car with my family very much. First, as the brother mentions, I got car sick a lot (a lot). Second, more than likely, I was going to a place I had not personally chosen to go to. Third, it was the place where all bets were off. We were either late going somewhere, or we were just tired and cranky returning from somewhere. And we fought. Sometimes, things would get so intense inside that car, that the parental unit would pull over, and make the biggest troublemaker of the moment get out of the car and walk a few blocks.

While it was somewhat amusing to remember those times and think about how ridiculous all of that must have looked, there was something in the story that really bugged me. In the middle of one of those not-so-happy moments, my brother was asked to change seats and complained, "this isn't fair!" I replied to his complaint with a snark "Life is not fair." Reading my reply to his frustration made me feel very uncomfortable, because I know exactly where that reply came from.

I had a very special place within my family. I was the first born daughter. My parents lost three pregnancies after I was born, so for five solid years, I was it. Then, after three high-risk and very awaited pregnancies, three baby boys were born. By the time the third brother was born, I had a secured spot in firstborn-and-only-daughter hierarchy. Yup, I was a daddy's girl.

On top of that was the fact that I had also been born to a very intelligent evangelical feminist. My mother was a preacher who did not conform to social or cultural stereotypes, and nobody-will-ever-put-you-my-baby-girl-in-the-corner was pretty much how she went about me.

And that was the place where the 'life is not fair' reply came from. At some point, I became so convinced that whatever special treatment I had within my family, I had earned it. In fact, technically, I had been born with it. In many different circumstances, I had it easier than the brothers. A lot of times it was out of the aforementioned dynamics. Other times, it was just because I was in a different season of life. However, as I look back at that scene in the car, I have been mulling over the same question in the past few days, 'Why didn't I offer up my seat?'  Because I was entitled to my comfortable spot.

Let the brothers fight, cry, and complain about their unlucky current state. Not my problem. Let them continue being uncomfortable. Let them continue to fight each other. Let them continue having the smaller bedroom. Let them continue being bullied. Because, yes, life isn't fair, and it is currently tilted in my favor, and I don't want to risk losing.

My parents carved a special place for me in the family. They did it out of love and a deep conviction of what Kingdom life looks like. I imagine them as the young couple they were, fresh out of seminary, working full-time at a church. I imagine them holding their new baby girl. I imagine my mom, knowing about all the stories she hears, thinking of how her jaw clenches and her own skin gets tight when she sees women being treated as less worthy because of their gender. I imagine my dad thinking of his own mom, the only daughter in a family of seven boys, and all the pain she's suffered, because she was the girl. And I imagine them thinking not for her, we mustn't let it happen... we need to do something different. And they do, they create this safe and nurturing place for the woman that I will become.

What a sweet spot to be in. Yet, how afraid I was so many times of losing it. At times, I was convinced that this was my divine right. Most times, I was so wrapped up in how good it felt that I became ambivalent to the needs of those around me. Isn't that what we do, though? Day after day we hear our brothers and sisters saying "this is not fair!" Another momma buried her child after a shooting. A friend's sister lost her house to a fire. A boss just took off to another country and left his employees without any pay. A husband left and never returned to care of his wife and two girls. How do we respond, out of our pimped seat? Are we willing to say, "hey, why don't I ride in the back for the rest of the trip. Come on up, the breeze is pretty nice right now."

The Toddler and The Baby in a Manger

I love Christmas season. It has always played an important part in my family life. We decorated our house the last weekend of November, making it toddler-proof as much as we could. As the days went by, I caught David as he was trying to reach for the Nativity scene on top of the piano. Since the pieces aren’t breakable, I just watched, thinking that, being the rural boy he is, he was going to play with the sheep – something so familiar and ordinary to him.

Part of Our Nativity Scene

However, as I watched closely, he just grabbed the baby figure, and brought it close to Mary. I asked, “what are you doing?” and he replied, “tetita”. That’s his word for nursing. He added, “baby eat.” I thought that was cute, and left him playing. After a while, I returned, and asked “did the baby eat?” David replied, “otro lado.” The other side. Of course, I thought. A baby needs to eat his fill.

Innocent and funny as that interaction seemed, the image stayed with me throughout the day. I had never thought of Jesus as a nursing baby. However, to David, Jesus is a baby, and thus can relate so well… he being nursing baby himself. So, naturally, his first thought when seeing the baby in a manger was to pick that baby up, and bring him to his momma’s breast.

Not the case with this breastfeeding mama.

David and Mama during a nursing session

This has been a hard year for me. No big tragedy. No big disaster. It’s just been the constant day to day battles that half the time feel like I’ve lost – the kid who throws tantrums, the baby who still wakes up in the middle of the night, the kid who now is afraid of the dark, the messy floor after every single meal, the overflowing never-ending to do list. It seems that on a constant basis somebody needs something from me. I have no moments to myself.

And more often than not, I have felt like Christ and I don’t have much in common these days. How can I relate to the one who made blind men see, and the lame walk, the one who came back from the dead? Such power and glory! I often feel powerless and by no means have my act together. But David made me rethink this mystery – Who is this Immanuel, God with us, Word made flesh? Who is this God who decided to enter the world as one of us breastfeeding babies?

 “Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are – yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.”