Hello, my name is Martha...

"What are your plans for the future?"

I loathe this question. It's inevitable, and yet it never ceases to strike fear into my soul, despite the pre-prepared answer "Oh, I don't really know. It's in God's hands, right?" And it's the truth. I do believe it's in God's hands.

But really, as much as I try to pretend to be one of those "Proverbs 31 women" that laughs without fear of the future, never swears, and shits rainbows and unicorns, I'm not. Clearly. So when people ask me, "What are your plans for the future?", I panic a little because all I know is that tomorrow I'm probably going to sleep through my alarm, throw on my unwashed clothes from today, and go make lattes. Because that's what I do.

And it's not like I don't have ideas of who I want to become, and where I want to live, and what I want to do. The problem is that I change my mind approximately 3242859 times a week about what that's going to look like, and I end up perched nicely on the fence where I started. Except instead of a fence, it's more like a 20-pronged fork in the road, with no idea where any of the paths lead. And it's a pretty populated place, I've noticed.

So we work full-time jobs to go to school, so we can get a degree, and be somebody. And to include Jesus, we go to bible study to learn about God, so we can be involved in youth minstry. And children's ministry. And lead our own bible studies. And we wouldn't dare be the heathen that says "I can't." So we go on short-term missions to prove that we're serious about this thing, which opens our eyes to this broken world. So we do more. Pick up your cross. Make disciples. Run the race. And we allow the very things that are supposed to bring us closer to God and make us to be more like His son, to become distractions.       

Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things.

I do believe my future is in God's hands.

But instead of letting him hold it, I'm constantly trying to pry it out of his fingers, and claim it for my own. And even though I pray, "Direct my steps, let your will be done", I still keep my doors open, so I can go where I see fit.

Mary has chosen what is better. 

 

But I'm scared of sitting at Jesus' feet.

That means backing away from His hands. It means having to stop talking at God, and start listening to God. It means trusting that my life is safe in His grip, and believing that He will not remain silent.

 

Few things are needed—or indeed only one.. and it will not be taken away.

 

He died, so I could walk boldly into His presence, and live there. Because Jesus wants me to spend time with him, and then go do, instead of fitting Jesus in between my doings. He wants me to worship with Mary's heart before I work with Martha's hands.

He wants me.

So I will hold a full-time job in order to develop perseverance. I will get an education, so I can bring hope and healing to God's people. I will meditate on His word, and share it with others. I will not grow weary of doing good, because He will give me rest. I will go where He calls, and see the brokenness, but also the beauty in the world He has made. I will pick up my cross, run the race, and make disciples.

I will sit at the feet of Jesus.

(Luke 10:38-42)

"The less people speak of their greatness, the more we think of it."

A fellow coffee slave once said, "If you ever want to lose all faith in humanity, work in a coffee shop." Amen to that, brotha.

People are freaks when it comes to coffee.

But there are those people who make it worth it. Those people who make you smile. Those people who make your day just by existing. Those people who know that there are bigger things to care about than the temperature of their Americano (No, I won't steam your water.) Those people who restore a little bit of faith.

To those people.


Dear Short Dark,

Thank you for being happy. Thank you for ordering the simplest drink on the menu. Thank you for always asking how my day is, and for leaving weird notes for the people on shift. Thank you for always putting away your newspaper, and wiping up your coffee drips.


Dear Venti Caramel Macchiato,

Thank you for inspiring. And I agree.


Dear "double double",

Thank you for rebelling against the system. I know you know what it's called. I know you know that the cream and sugar is at the condiment stand. I love that you call it a "double double" anyway.


Dear "Merry Christmas. Have a drink on me",

Thank you for embracing the Christmas season. Thank you for giving generously. Thank you for making many a person's day.


Dear Caramel Latte,

Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for being shocking. Thank you for stealing other people's fancy drinks, even though I have to remake them. Thank you for taking the to-stay mugs outside...and returning them on the fireplace later. Thank you for warning me about the bad weather. Even though I know you sleep in it sometimes. Thank you for being kind, despite being treated the opposite.


Dear Triple Venti extraextraextra-dry Cappuccino,

Your drink is a pain in the butt to make. Thank you for smiling. Thank you for being appreciative. Thank you for asking me what my name is.



To those people: Cheers.

 

 

 

Pen-spiration

I really like school supplies. Maybe I'm just a huge nerd, but there's something about a pack of new pens that gets me really excited...even if I have 6296585 perfectly functional pens kicking around under my bed. The new ones are always better.

 

And highlighters. I am a self-admitted highlighter junkie. I love them. I hoard them. Do I use online textbooks? Yes. Do I still require every color of the rainbow in Sharpie form? Obviously.

 

I bought school supplies the other day. The aisle with the notebooks, pencils, and binders with mysteriously massive pouches is a magical place. My favorite thing when I was a kid was getting the "needed supplies" list and raiding Wal-Mart the week before school started. I loved sharpening all my pencils, arranging everything neatly in the proper compartments, and filling binders with blank papers. And I still get that super excited back-to-school feeling when I walk down that aisle.

 

Fun story. In the mail, there was an envelope with my name on it. No note. No return address. Just a pack of Post-It notes. I LOVE Post-Its. I took it as a sign. Hit the books. Nose to the grindstone. Finals. I so got this.

Short-lived.

I still hate studying.

But now my bag is exploding with fluorescent fun. Yes.

A Kind of Happiness

Sometimes, life just feels like sadness. When the sky only changes from light grey to black and back again. When you step outside and the boogers freeze in your nose. When the cappuccinos just aren't dry enough, and the lattes are just aren't sweet enough, and I-asked-for-190°-not-160°. When definitions, compositions, and text editions seem to replace the expeditions, ambitions, and free volitions...point made.

It's these times that I want to curl up in my llama sweater, eat bagels, and wait until the planet becomes a better place before turning on the radio or going outside. Because my heart just hurts for the too muches, not enoughs, needs, buts, and can'ts of this world. And around this time, there seems to be an obscene amount of those.

In my nerdy, delusioned mind, I am convinced that Harry Potter is real, and that every year when November rolls around, Dementors come and suck people of their soul happies. It explains everything, really.

This year though, I'm feeling rebellious. (Side note: One time, a friend of mine told me I was the least badass person he knows...I reject that.) I'm keeping my soul happies. Because even though the sky is the color of nasty, over-cooked egg yolks, and people have freaky and unnatural expectations of their Starbucks, the world can still be beautiful.

Expecto Patronum, yo.





Bless him.

Hasta luego, Bolivia.

The countdown officially begins: 10 days until I leave for Canada! It’s a weird feeling. It struck me today, as I was haggling for bread in a sweaty outdoor market, how much I’ve gotten used to life in Bolivia. And how different this life is from the one I put on hold in Canada. If I walked into Walmart and told the cashier I wouldn’t buy their bread for more than 10 cents a piece, that would not go down well. You don’t pay strangers in Canada to let you ride in the trunk of their vehicle. Bus rides to work don’t generally involve holding an elderly woman’s chicken in your lap. Kissing people you meet on the street is also known as harassment. I gotta say, I’m a little nervous to go from laid-back South American living to the craziness that is home. Well, my other home. Now, my little village in the middle of Bolivia is "home" as well. Leaving will be bitter-sweet. While there is much about Bolivia I will miss, I am excited to see all of YOU, eat cheese, and take normal showers again. These things I have missed. As for Bolivia, I know there will many things I will equally miss:

1)      Anocaraire – the tucked away village Hospitals of Hope is located in. Although it smells like manure, and is an hour’s drive away from anywhere I need to be, I would not want to live anywhere else. I will greatly miss walking through the little farms, chattin it up with the local women, and being greeted at recess by kids from the village school, most of whom I’ve been lucky to know from our regular check-ups there.  

2)      Casa de Amor! – the orphanage I’ve had the pleasure of working at most weekdays for the past couple of months. Out of the three houses,  I will particularly miss House 1, where 12 tots under the age of 3 live. Baby heaven. Love.  As chaotic and ridiculous as House 2, the older kid’s home, is, I have come to love the little Spanish sass-masters, and I know it’s going to be difficult leaving them. Sad.

3)      Bolivian transportation – I remember when I first came to Bolivia, I couldn’t figure out which side of the road vehicles are supposed to drive on. Because they drive on both. Seatbelts are non-existent. Turn signals are an unheard of concept. Red lights, where lights are even present, are optional. And faster is better, always. There is never not-enough-room, and the shoulder of your neighbour passenger is always fair game for napping on. These things make me happy.

4)       Frozen yogurt – There is this lady that stands next to Percy the Trufiman (see my first blog post) with an armpit full of frozen yogurt-in-a-tube. She sells them for 1 Boliviano each, the equivalent of 12 cents. I originally started buying them from her, because she looks at you with these super sad eyes, that my spineless self can’t resist, shoves a yogurt in your face, and says “Yogurt...please? Only one little Boliviano.” I have to buy one. Every time. Along with the sad eyes, they are also super delicious. One slightly suspicious fact about the yogurt – you have to bite off the top with your teeth, and it’s always super salty. It might have to do with the armpit storage system she's got going on. I try not to think about it.  

5)      The plaza – My story about Monica kind of sums up why I will miss this place. I have grown to know many of the people living in the plaza, and while it’s painful to hear their lives, I love spending time with them, and they have become my friends. These friendships, I will miss.

6)      Spanish – Never thought I would say I would miss this. The Spanish language was the bane of my existence when I first came to Bolivia. Now that I understand it, I’ve gained an appreciation for it. I even learned how to roll my R’s. Kind of. Also, miscommunications are beautiful. Example. One day, coming back to the hospital close to dinner-time, the security guard opens the gate, and a non-Spanish speaking volunteer attempts to ask, “Tienes hambre?” – “Are you hungry?”. What comes out instead: “Tienes hombre?” . Translation: “Do you have a man?” One letter. Big difference. I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.

There are so many more things I will miss about living in Bolivia. But these just give me all the more reason to come back. Algun dia. J

Monica.

Miranda lectured me about how I needed to blog more. Miranda is wise. So I’m going to try.

My excuse for not sharing my stories, people I’ve met, places I’ve been, was  “I can’t do it justice.” This is true. No words I say will fully describe what living in Bolivia is like. But these people, places, stories are important, even if it’s only my Mom who reads this. (Hi Mom) So here’s one story.

I met Monica my first month in Bolivia. She was sitting on a blanket in the middle of the Plaza San Sebastian, a park where the roughest of the Cochabamba homeless population live. I brought a sandwich to offer and sat down beside her.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Today, good.”

“What’s your name?”

“Monica.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Breanna. Do you live here?”

“Yep.”

“How old are you?”

“17.”

“Me too. Do you like living here?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no.”

“Do you ever want to live somewhere else?”

“Yes.”

“There are homes you could live in.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because of this.”

She waved a bottle of glue that she had been holding up to her nose throughout the conversation. Everyone who lives in the plaza has the same plastic bottle, permanently pressed up to their face. Clefa. To the world, they are simply drug addicts. They sniff. They stab. They rape. Yes, they act like animals. Because society treats them like animals. If I was in their position, I don’t know if I would be any different.  Growing to know these people, I understand now that they don’t sniff to get high, they sniff to survive. The clefa numbs hunger, cold, pain. It’s an escape from the reality that is living on the streets. We continued to talk, and after a while, she took her foot out from underneath her and showed it to me. “Doctor, something’s wrong with my toe.” Her big toe was huge, black, and smelled rank. In my last blog post, I believe I mentioned my fear of feet…enough said.  I took her to see a real doctor, and to my obvious great pleasure, assisted in slicing open and draining her toe on a urine soaked park bench. That’s one way to conquer a fear.

The next week, I returned to find Monica sitting on the same blanket. “Señorita! Come here.” I came over and sat down, and she held out a cup of water for me. “It’s hot today. Drink.” I refused, telling her she should save it, but she insisted. The cup was filthy. I drank.  Kind of hard to refuse that. Water is a precious resource to these people.

Since I first met Monica, I’ve seen her almost every week. Every week, we’d talk, she’d show me her festering foot, and we’d do the same procedure. Slice, drain, bandage. Every week, it was the same. Then one day, she wasn’t at the plaza. For 3 weeks, I didn’t see her. Finally, two weeks ago, she made an appearance. After some small talk, Monica pulled me over to a secluded tree, and pulled off her shoe. Her toe smelled foul, and looked like it was dying. I’m no doctor, but I do know that toes should not be large, green and pussy. Not normal. I told her she would have to go to the hospital or lose her toe. After much debating, she finally agreed. I happen to live in a hospital. How convenient.

We hopped in a Trufi to begin the hour-long trip to the hospital, passengers staring unashamedly at Monica as she curled up with her glue held up to her nose.

“Monica, can I have the glue for the afternoon? I’ll give it back when we leave the hospital.”

“No.”

“Can I have it for an hour?”

“No.”

“Can I have it for half an hour?”

“No.”

 

Okay.

 

 Monica continues to sniff. Five minutes later, she pulls the bottle away from her nose and stares at it. Then, she slides open the Trufi window, and without hesitating, throws it onto the road. Immediately, she looks at me, horrified at what she had just done. I burst out laughing. ”You don’t need it. I’m proud of you.” Although I knew that as soon as we returned to the plaza, she would more than likely find a new bottle, it was a good moment. Ten minutes later, she was fast asleep on my shoulder. Sleep doesn’t happen much in the plaza. For the first time since I met her, she seemed at peace.

I haven’t seen Monica since our excursion to the hospital two weeks ago. I don’t know if that was her last sniff of glue, or if she’s somewhere on the streets now, a new bottle in hand. I don’t know if she took her antibiotics, or traded them in for clefa. I don’t know when I will see her next, or if I ever will.

When that bottle of glue hit the pavement, I could have cried, I was so happy. It’s not physically addictive. Monica doesn’t need it. It’s a crutch. Something she has control over. Something she knows might make it feel a little better, soften reality a little. Yes, it’s awful. Yes, it makes them do terrible things. I can see why the residents of Cochabamba fear these people, are disgusted with their behaviour. But when it comes down to it, we all have our crutches. Some might not be as tangible as a bottle of glue, but it’s our human nature to turn to anything but the One who made us, to make us feel safe, secure, happy. “For you are a slave to whatever controls you.” – 2 Peter 2:19. Money. Relationships. Glue. We all have our stuff. We all have our temptations. Jesus said, “Pray that you don’t enter into temptation” (Matthew 26:41), not “Pray that you’ll never be tempted.” Monica will probably struggle with glue for the rest of her life. Her battle is worn on her sleeve, visible for everyone to see. But the rest of us are all fighting something too. Some of us are just better at hiding it. Although it makes me angry when I see toddlers living on the street because of the decisions their parents have made, I can’t judge anyone in the plaza for relying on glue to get through. That’s not my right. Yes, it’s not fair. But our God’s not fair. If God was fair, nobody would make it into his graces. As humans, we suck. A holy, fair God couldn’t be with us. But God is just, and God has grace. And because of this grace, we not only receive the privilege of serving God, but also the right to call Him friend. Servant and friend. It makes no sense. But that's grace.   

“I no longer call you slaves, because a master doesn’t confide in his slaves. Now you are my friends, since I have told you everything the Father told me. You didn’t choose me, I chose you.”

-John 15:15-16

List Therapy.

Making lists soothes me. Sometimes I even catch myself praying in list format. This could very well be a symptom of OCD... I’m choosing to embrace it.

Anyways.

Fear. I have a lot of fears. Fears regarding Bolivia, fears regarding the future.  And some really random fears that have no basis in anything. I Googled them. It made me feel slightly less insane knowing there’s someone out there that took the time to scientifically name them. I’d like to think that OCD list-making is a few notches below that feat on the crazy ladder. For your reading pleasure, here are a few:

1)      Chronophobia - Fear of time. Sometimes, life just drags on. Kind of like Bolivian internet. Other times, it moves really fast. This intimidates me. There’s so much I want to do. I don’t want to miss anything. Time changes people. Sometimes this is a good thing. Sometimes this is a great thing. Other times, it makes me sad. Time takes people places. Schools, jobs, foreign countries. Time changes. Time separates.

2)      Podophobia - Fear of feet. I have no idea where this came from. There’s just something about them. I can’t handle it.

3)      Xenophobia - Fear of the unknown. I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life. Usually, I am okay with this. But sometimes, the future is a wee bit scary. What if I were to stay in Bolivia for the rest of my life? I say I would do anything for God, but could I seriously leave everything behind, and live this life without a return ticket? On the other hand, what if I were to live in Prince George for the remainder of my time on earth? I claim my contentment is in God, but could I really surrender all my plans?

4)      Soteriophobia - Fear of being incapable. I have a little bit of an inner feminist that occasionally slips out. I admit this. I like to do it myself. I’m kind of like a 2-year old. I’m scared of needing someone else’s help.

5)      Parkophobia - Fear of parking. Anyone who has driven with me in a crowded, or even maybe-not-so-crowded parking lot understands this. If there is even the slightest chance of me hitting another vehicle, I will park 3 blocks away in order to avoid this. If there is a chance of me having to parallel park, I will park 10 blocks away in order to avoid this.

I recognize that these are not rational fears. There are very few things in life that deserve to be feared. Fear is a liar. And for every BIG fear I have, I have someone bigger. Instead of living with fear, I will live in fear of the one who created everything. Who created time, feet, the future, the past, too-big-for-me tasks, and ground to park that car. I will fear the one who calms all my fears.

Because:

1)      Malachi 3:6 - “I am the Lord, and I do not change.” When everything changes, He will not. I will be content with this.

2)      Isaiah 52:7 – “How beautiful are the feet of the messenger who brings good news.” Feet are beautiful. I will accept this.

3)      Jeremiah 29:11 – “ ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.’” Nuff said.

4)      Matthew 18:4 – “So anyone who becomes as humble as this little child is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.” I am human. I do need help. 

5)      Exodus 23:20 – “See, I am sending an angel before you to protect you on your journey and lead you safely to the [parking spot] I have prepared for you.” Amen to that, Moses.

Fear will not hold me.