Monday, December 29, 2014

Argentina and airports

Well, with 8 minutes until boarding, this might be my briefest blog post yet. Airports are weird in-between places: still plenty of porteño going on, but for the first time in months, I'm started to be surrounded again by the drawls, twangs, and phrases of my native language. And thus begins the transition back.

Speaking of transitions and comparisons/contrasts, here are some random differences that might take some re-getting-used to...

-Vertical light switches (most here go left to right)
-Throwing toilet paper into the, well, toilet
-Football on TV (that kind of football)
-Not getting asked "where are you from?" and being told my Spanish sounds weird/good on a daily basis by total strangers
-Stores being open from 1-4 (siesta time here)
-No 80 cent icecream (Grido, I miss you already!)
-Greeting with a handshake or hug (minus the bumping cheeks)

I'll let you know how the transition goes- in the mean time, I have a flight to catch!

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Did you pack band-aids? (Mom)

Little Becky (with awesome pants)
About 5 years ago, as I was packing my bags (3 suitcases, 1 backpack) in early August to head to college across the country in Tennessee- count the prepositions there- my Mom asked me if I had remembered to buy/pack band-aids. I tossed a box from the bathroom into a pocket and wouldn't have thought much more of it.

Over the next remaining days, she asked that question again and again. "Did you pack band-aids?" wound its way into most conversations at breakfast, in the car, while vacuuming, heading out the door, at the grocery store, finishing the crossword puzzle, napping at the river. It became almost a joke between us; every time there was a gap in the conversation, I'd respond "yes, I packed band-aids." To this day I'm not entirely sure why she was concerned about this item in particular- there are, after all, band-aids in Tennessee. Maybe she knew that I'm accident-prone and a bit of a klutz (looking at the scabs on my knees, she's right), maybe she knew in my minimalist packing I likely wouldn't think to bring them (again, she's right). Or maybe, in spite of how much she knew she would miss me, she wanted me to have a good adventure- scrapes and cuts and stings included- and wanted to make sure I took care of myself in the midst of it.
My mom when she was about
my age (crazy thought)

I've always been close to my Mom, but I wouldn't say that we have the sister-twin relationship like some of my friends have with theirs. Physically, I turned out more like my Dad, and in personality I seem to have inherited mostly traits from his side of the family. All that to say that I have many of the same things she loves about him, but also similar tendencies that annoy/frustrate her- lack of planning and communication more than anything. Naturally, I have plenty of my Mom in me, too- we have a lot of the same tastes in music, food, humor, and hobbies; I can give her name (my middle name) at Starbucks when 'Jill' is too complicated; my inclination to work with kids and languages comes primarily from her; and I've been told we have the same voice on the phone.

The wonder of my Mom, for me, is not that we're similar- it's that she's wonderfully different. In many ways, she is my complement. She taught me how to hug (and sent one with me in the form of a quilt), gets me to say what's on my mind, and was the first to say "go for it!" when I brought up the idea of Argentina. She is social, pretty, goofy, generous, and wise; she is dressed in strength and dignity and she can laugh at the (many!) days to come. Many women do awesome things, but you outshine them all- and in that regard, I hope to be very much like you- because a woman who lives and demonstrates a good relationship with God, her family, and her neighbor deserves recognition (Proverbs 31, yet another paraphrase).
PDX in February- see you in 2 days!

Happy birthday and feliz cumple, Mom!

And yes, I packed band-aids. 

Saturday, December 27, 2014

So...how is Argentina?

I'm gonna take a wild guess that sometime in the next weeks, you may ask me this question. And I, in my jet-lagged brain, will likely respond something profound like: "how's Argentina? It's pretty good" Which is not what either of us really mean to hear/say after nearly ten months of being a continent away. In other words, I need to work on a 2 minute pitch that sums up life for a year with 20 other people teaching, studying, and ministering; because otherwise, like most things...it's a long story. And since I want to hear your stories, too, I'll keep mine simple:

I came to Argentina in February thanks to a connection I'd made in college with a seminary in Buenos Aires. I studied Theology, taught English, gave free hugs, turned 23, drank way too much tea, talked on the radio and at a youth retreat with no voice, painted a cardboard boat and took it to the park, wore very tall shoes to graduation, and spent Christmas with my awesome roommate Luci. The plan at the moment is to go home a few months, return in March 2015 to finish up classes, leave a solid English curriculum to whoever teaches next, hopefully travel some, and come back stateside in August to get a Masters degree somewhere for free (GRE went very well, praise God, so I figure if it's meant to be, it'll be gratis). God has been very good to me, so I think I'll stick with Him and listen to whatever ideas He might have about these next months/years/however long I get to enjoy this crazy earth.

Yep, that's pretty much it!

Seminary in 2012, my first visit to Argentina

English class, in philosophy
Free hugs in the park


Oddly, it was really hard to find a picture drinking mate.
This is my friend Natalia

"Divine Geniuses", the youth conference I got to help with

The "Jesus Cruise", a skit in Plaza Armenia

Pastor Zoraida (from Peru), and me
in her very tall shoes!

Me and Luci (plus Carina and Fernando) at a HS graduation
in Cordoba last week


Friday, December 5, 2014

When you're not sure what to say...praise

One of the many birthday water wars- Luci's!
Tomorrow is graduation day for the seminary, and while I have a very lot in my heart to ponder and reflect on these past ten months, I'm having a difficult time putting any of it into words (ironic, especially on this blog I named 'jilliteracy').

What do you say to the friendships, the late nights, the prayers, the tears, the theophanies, the endless rounds of tea, the green tub that's just the right size for washing feet, the wonder of it all?

What do you say when your eyes and your heart is full with and because of the goodness and faithfulness of God?

You praise.

And so, without further ado, here are two songs the English class wrote about a month ago, in their second language and more eloquently than most. Enjoy...

Jesus is the Lord
Holy holy my God
You cleanse my sin
You are Almighty King
In the cross with the blood
You conquered the dark
Forgave my sin
I adore you King of kings
-Franco and Gaby
(around the circle): Tatiana, Diego, Agustina,
me, Gaby, Franco, Jhony, Raul, and Abner

I walk- you are there
You smile- it's for me
Your grace within me
Your life saved me
With my heart I will sing to you
Because you forgive my sins
I put my hope in you
Because you are my Savior
-Tatiana, Diego, Agustina, and Raúl



Around the world we sing of your love.
We feel like the earth also cries out for your presence.
Because you are life, shelter, comfort and those who trust you will not be ashamed
You're close, you're our friend
You are loved by those who know you
Because, you are true and  just 
Storms, winds, nothing can extinguish the fire that you sow in our hearts...
-Melisa and Zoraida




Tuesday, December 2, 2014

On the first post of Advent some prophets gave to me...a whole lot of weird and crazy

Working title: Prophets are crazy- or the first Sunday of Advent snuck by me while my head was buried in the GRE 1

Maybe it's been a need for poetry, maybe because of Old Testament course requirements, but I've been spending some quality time with the prophets lately: the ones you lit the candle for last Sunday, the big-bearded, bad-news-bearing boys of ancient Israel and Judah (to be fair, there were also women prophets, but I'm pretty sure they didn't have beards).

Let me say this- the prophets are one weird bunch.
Prophet...or maybe just a
crazy mountain man w/ a beard

I guess things are prone to go off-kilter up top when the Almighty puts His words in your mouth and His visions in your subconscious, but there's a crazy artistry among them that makes van Gogh cutting his ear off look like getting a temporary tattoo in comparison. Take, for instance, their personal relationships:

Jeremiah: "You won't get married...ever". Definitely not normal.
Hosea: "You will marry...a prostitute." Not super conventional, either. Bonus: "And name your children 'Not Loved', 'Not Mine', and 'Destroy!'"
Ezekiel: May have gotten off easiest, since he married and seemed to have a pretty happy marriage (for a prophet). But, when his wife dies, "don't mourn her"

Being a prophet is rough on other interpersonal relationships, too. Nobody gets popular by calling out "broods of vipers" or reminding a government that it's national security is a total illusion. And so they get tossed in dry wells, stoned (with rocks, although seeing wheels in wheels do make me wonder sometimes...), jailed, censored, and mocked. It's a hard-knock life. Reading them always makes me a bit cautious when I ask God to 'speak to me'. Giant fish and zombie armies considered, I think I'll just get by with my conscience. The most complicated part of being a prophet is that they often had to act out their messages (I told you they were artists): bury your belt, cook your food over poo, run naked through town, talk to skeletons, shave with a sword...

...And we lit a candle for these guys why?

As crazy as the prophets were, their messages were even crazier. Messenger-spirits 2 with four faces (how is this mathematically possible?), messenger-spirits burning lips with red-hot coals. Oh yeah, and messenger-spirits and mass destruction. Lots of mass destruction.

Destruction for cheating on God.
Destruction for oppressing the poor and the immigrants.
Destruction so final it comes in triple-threat: siege, disease, and sword.
Destruction so intense the earth is soaked in blood.
Destruction so justly deserved that there will be no survivors.

Destruction, just one of many reasons no one liked the prophets. (The other reason is that they're prone to say "told you so"). And yet, illogically, amidst the atrocities and aftermath, there is hope.

For a people who have known nothing but corrupt leadership- a leader who will actually care for their needs and prevent the strong from oppressing the vulnerable.

Towards the dead and sooty temple stone, a river of life.

Instead of an unfaithful wife and illegitimate children, a radiant bride and heirs hereafter known as "Loved" and "Mine".

In the burnt stubble of the battlefield, a green shoot pushes up.
Wildflowers on Mt. St. Helens after the volcanic blast

In the midst of so much death, the most perfect example of new life:

Our child, a Son
Responsible Governor, Wonderful Counselor
Mighty God
Prince of Peace
Everlasting Father
Immanuel 3

Immanuel. Proof in the flesh that God might actually be with us, after all.

That is the hope of these crazy prophets, even though they died without seeing it. It is the hope surrounding the equally weird birth, life, and death of Jesus of Nazareth; the hope that made the prophets of his ages think "huh, He could be our hope in spite of the destruction, present with us in the middle of everything that's happened and happening to us."

And with that wild hope we light a candle.




Footnotes: I thought about referencing everything, and then realized I'd have over 30 footnotes for a rather short blog post. Meh, nope!
1. Yeah, I finished the GRE this morning! 170 verbal and 155 quantitive, essay unknown =)
2. Angel αγγελος in Greek means 'messenger'- pretty apt!
3.  Isaiah 9:6-7

Saturday, November 29, 2014

Eucharisteo (Give thanks)

It's no secret that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Although I've only spent it once these past 6 years with my biological relatives, I've still managed to celebrate it with family: my adopted grandparents in Cleveland, TN (complete with cookies and movies afterwards when they noticed my homesickness), roommates' families in Memphis and Kennesaw, once on campus, and now here in Buenos Aires, Argentina with the intrepid twenty-one.

This may prove to be my strangest Thanksgiving yet. Turkeys are over $4 a pound (seminarian budget says nope!), the leaves are bright green (sunny and in the 80s tomorrow), and I can assure you there will be no crafty place settings, cornucopias, or (sadly) sparkling cider. 

But I can guarantee you that there will be thanksgiving. 

There will be thanksgiving for the same reason that a half-starved group of Calvinists set the table (and were uncharacteristically jovial) for two cultures and one week, with nothing but gratitude in their hearts for surviving their first year in a harsh new land. 

There will be thanksgiving for the same reason two innocent outsiders sang through the darkest hours of the night in their windowless cell. 

I'll stop there for now, because you've already picked up on my dramatic comparison. "Jill, surely you can't be comparing being far from home and a disappointing lack of cider to the trials of the Pilgrims, Paul, and Silas...right?" No...and yes. 

I have a ridiculous amount of things and people to be thankful for. Argentina has been a wonderful second home and the people I have shared with this past year will be part of my story forever. I have a family who loves me from afar and a comfy pillow nearby; my stomach is full, the plumbing works, the English class will be cooking an all-American Thanksgiving dinner (minus the turkey), and the seminary guitar is currently in my possession. These are all good things that I can give thanks for.

But...what about the hard days, when the mattress is hard or I feel alone or the guitar is far away and I have more of a lump than a song in my throat? The example of the Pilgrims and my brothers and sisters who have gone before me in Christ remind me that I can still give thanks. They were able to look back through their circumstance and see the footsteps of God walking with them every step of the way and guiding them up to their present moment.

Thankfulness, for them and for me, is not so much having something to give thanks for than knowing someone to give thanks to.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good- His faithful love endures forever.   

Forever and constant, on Thanksgiving or any other day of the week, God is good. His faithful love has brought me to The Dalles, Tennessee, Argentina, and back...and I will give thanks.  


Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Room for you (conversation with a 9-year-old in Palermo)

I'm not much of an eschatology-minded girl, but this thought was important enough to share with a 9-year-old in Palermo, so it's good enough for the blog.

We sat on the cardboard, coloring, as the evening sky grew almost too dark to see the colors. We had waited hours to perform the skit, and to be honest, it was a bit lackluster: a handful of kids in the audience, audio problems, missed lines, and now 4 little ones sitting around me, coloring in the boat and talking. The oldest (9 years old, birthday in March, yellow t-shirt) was pretty savvy, and remembered stuff about Jesus from her confirmation class. But something unsettled her.

"You said that when we live with Jesus, we don't have to be afraid. But death- not that I'm afraid or anything- no one actually knows what happens after we die."

Ah. Life. Death. The unknown and the unknowable. My brain skipped a beat through the doubts, and went back to a story, a conversation...1

And Peter asked Jesus: "where are you headed?" 

Where indeed?

Jesus had been talking about his death again- not the most settling after-dinner conversation, even if the dinner had included some weird metaphors; the disciples, just called friends, were shaken. Their teacher hadn't preached much about the afterlife, and Jewish theology was pretty hazy when it came to Sheol 2 and spirits and Abraham et al. They were about as informed as the 9-year old, or as fearful as the 23-year-old some days. 

Typical Jesus, he doesn't answer their question directly. But he does calm their fears. This is his good news for them and for us:

I am going to my Father to prepare a place for you, so that we can live together. 

Or, as I summarized in Palermo...there is room in God's house for you. 

Jesus has specifically calculated its expansive dimensions with you in mind; there is a place set for you at the table, a spot to kick your shoes off haphazardly in the walkway, a window angled toward the best panorama 3. It is a space crafted to make you feel secure, cared for, valuable, and loved. 

In God's love, there is room for you. 

"But how do we get there?" wondered Thomas. How can we possibly find our way home to a place we've never been 4? How do you point a 9-year-old (that you'll likely never see again) in the direction of welcome and love? After so many miles, how do you aim your own worn tennis shoes towards where you belong?

You point them towards Jesus. 

There are no GPS coordinates, no Google street-views of the Way. As much as even I would like to reduce my faith to disciplines and steps- start with this book of the Bible, go here, pray like them- I realize that ultimately misses the point. "The call is gracious because it is a call to follow Jesus"5. While none of the above are wrong (they are actually quite helpful), they are not the way to the house or to the Father. Jesus is. 

This is good news to Palermo, this is good news to us: there is plenty of room prepared, and Jesus marks the path from the soles of your soul to the wide-open door. There is a cross, there is death in the Way home. But 6, there is also resurrection and life. 

There is room in this Way, there is room in this house for you. 

Fear not =) 










This famous exchange comes from John 13-14

Sheol is one of the more common Old Testament words for "grave", or "death". From the sound of many Psalms and Ecclesiastes, it's kind of a no-man's land: there is no praise or reports because there is no life.

Christian kids of the 90's are already singing it with me...It's a big big house...(Audio Adrenaline)

Another song...Switchfoot's "This is Home"

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, "The Cost of Discipleship"

Spoiler alert!









Sunday, November 16, 2014

Silence and stars

Envy me all you want, but this hot Buenos Aires weather has been roasting me at night. And so I (and others) escape to the terraza, my favorite part of the seminary, most evenings for a moment or two where a light breeze makes the air not quite so stagnant and a little more bueno. The slumbering city seems a bit farther away, and the water tank above gurgles placidly. 

Some nights, I can even see the stars. 

"Starry Night" Vincent Van Gogh
It's the stars that caught our attention last night as we drank terere (cold mate with juice- hits the spot in the summer) and talked about life and ministry and these past nine months and home and God and future plans and past stories and present food; really, what more is there to talk about? Terere finished, we once again looked up. 

"The stars are so distant," reflected Camilo1, and paused. "Like God." He lowered his gaze from the nightly heavens and reassured: "I know God is, and that He is here, but He is silent right now, and the silence is disconcerting."

Silence and especially the silence of God is a serious problem for Pentecostals, who believe in a very verbal expression of the Holy Spirit. It's equally as significant of a problem for any believer- we want God to speak to us, to guide us, to approve of us, to respond to us in some way or another. The silence of the stars makes us very uneasy, and our hearts grow heavy and anxious. What we heard last week or last year is too easily forgotten or discarded as "general"; we must hear today and preferably something that responds to our queries and our will. 

How silently, how silently...2

I think of the times of silence in my own life, the times when I begged for wisdom, exact directions in my plans, GPS-precise confirmation...I got none. Instead, I heard the silence of heaven, and occasionally, when I least expected it, something unrelated or vague; the three times I presumed to hear God's voice with the most clarity in the past year seemed unhelpful at the time and followed depressingly long bouts of nothingness. 

What shows up in Google for "Abraham and stars"-cool!
I stare again at the stars and think of Abraham, the father of the faith and a fellow stargazer. For someone who heard God with impressive precision, doing the math on an extended lifespan and the quantity of theophanies3 therein, there had to have been some pretty lonely times of silence. I can imagine Abraham staring at the heavens and remembering God's promise to bless him and make his people greater than the constellations and wondering once again as Sarah's cradle rocks emptily or as Ismael's small hand grasps Abraham's gnarled finger. 

God's will in those moments must have felt like an awfully big stab in the dark, even by the light of the stars. 

How does one live in that silence? How do you go about every night when the stars are stubborn and have nothing to say? 

I've become convinced that my truest character and convictions come out in moments of silence, because they require me to wait. I am not naturally a patient person, in personality or culture, and disagreeably, patience is acquired through experience. In silence I learn to wait quietly. Waiting quietly doesn't mean that I cloister myself off or postpone all decision making. It simply means that I allow God to speak when and how He chooses (not a tame lion, after all4). It means that the times God does speak after a silence, I am ready to listen. 

It means I can sit under the silence of the stars and still know that He is God. 

Every day I call to you, my God, but you do not answer
Every night I lift my voice...
Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel
Our ancestors trusted in you and you rescued them...
They trusted in you and were never disgraced5






Camilo
Camilo González Amézquita from Colombia is finishing up his seminary experience here while working on the annoying Gen-Ed entry requirement for the University of Buenos Aires (philosophy major). All this to say that yes, he really did use the word 'disconcerting' in a normal conversation (in Spanish) and that at the moment, or any time, he would really really appreciate some french fries.

Yep, I'm breaking the Christmas carols out already- the line is from "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem"
How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven...

Theophany- fancy Greek word meaning "God shows up"

C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

Psalm 22:2-5, New Living Translation (one of my new favorite translation finds, especially in Spanish as la Nueva Traducción Viviente)

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Remember

Do you remember who you are?

It's not an accusation- it's a gentle question, a crown of glory
(or maybe of daisies or thorns, who knows...but it fits you).

The crown that reminds you of your worth- do you remember?

Woven to love and be loved
To respect and be respected
To treasure and be treasured

(I hope you've heard those words somehow.
Maybe in your dad's voice
Or your kindergarten teacher's hug
Or, at the very least, in Mr. Roger's neighborhood.
If you haven't, hear them in this typed jumble)

Do you remember now? Good. Now hold tight.
Because everything within and without you is going to try to make you forget it

The images that show you that you don't fit
The numbers that tell you you're not enough
The words that whisper to you, however persuasively, that you're good for nothing
Or good for only one thing

Lies.

"You must remember, remember, remember"*





*Aslan, in The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis



Monday, November 10, 2014

The Gospel in your life, a letter in my heart

     For some reason, people think it's really unusual when I let an Argentine slang expression slip out. Posta (for reals). They find it odd even after I mention that I've been living the last nine months with over a dozen of them- plus Peruvians, Colombians, and the Chilean- which in turn strikes me as funny. I'm a bit of a language chameleon: who else do you expect me to talk like if not like the ones I talk with? I realized during English class last week that it goes both ways- all of my students, somewhere in their vocabulary and pronunciation, have some Oregonian in them. 

     They talk like me, I talk like them: just one of many side effects of life together. 

     Obviously, the give-and-take is quite a bit more than accent. Living with the tremendous twenty has influenced some mannerisms, habits, and jokes and has made me reevaluate my work-relationship priorities, especially when it comes to God. I'm still very much me, but a me that has been grown and shaped by others (or, if you prefer, by the Other).

     This concept of influence was mulling through my mind as I read 2 Corinthians a few weeks ago. This normally doesn't happen, not because I don't read the Bible, but because I'm not a huge Pauline lit fan: his fancy Greek comes off a bit arrogant sometimes, and being a man of his time, his comments on women irritate me (women will be saved through childbirth...qué?). My favorite epistle is James, but all of this is beside the point... 

     The point is, I was surprised to read a distinct tone in Paul in 2 Corinthians, one that shows considerable care and concern. Paul worries that a congregation he had shared with and longed to return to is being taken advantage of by manipulative itinerant "teachers"; the Corinthians, understandably wary, have asked him for confirmation. The apostle's response is classic:

     "The only letter of recommendation we need is you yourselves. Your lives are a letter written in our hearts; everyone can read it and recognize our good work among you. Clearly, you are a letter from Christ showing the result of our ministry among you. This "letter" is written not with pen and ink, but with the Spirit of the living God. It is carved not on tablets of stone, but on human hearts 1"

     As my Southern friends would say, that'll preach. 

    As Carolina Artana, one of my New Testament professors, once said, "your life is Gospel 2. The Biblical canon may be closed, but God's work in you is not, and that is good news."

     Your life, your influence, is a letter from Christ. 

   This is incredibly good news for the people who will never pick up a Bible or may never walk through the doors of a church building, and yet will meet you. It is definitely comforting for those who, like me, have that letter engraved on our hearts. And it is infinitely significant for the way I live and influence as a letter written with the Holy Spirit in Times New Pearson font. 

     Posta




2 Corinthians 3:2-3 New Living Translation
2 Gospel comes from the Old English "good spell", or good story; it's an excellent translation of the Greek ευανγελλιον, evangel, or "good news"



Wednesday, November 5, 2014

Hope in this city

Nothing quite brings the human condition into sharp focus than living with millions of them and watching small excerpts of their everyday lives play out: walking the dog with pink stilettos, grubby small hands asking for money, women buying bread, dads towing along curly haired toddlers in the middle of a tantrum. And the like. 

Crooked, but looking up
Maybe it's the melancholy in me, but I tend to pick out the broken moments first: arguments, longing looks, prostitutes and addicts, nonverbal expressions of despair and unloveliness, innocence broken into glass bottle shards. There's not much I can do about any of it; I say a quick prayer as I pass by and sometimes stop and ask, but mostly continue on my way, feeling pretty impotent and upset at humanity and my humanity. Where is Jesus, where is His body, where is His kingdom?

And yet, some days, I see glimpses of it. 

The nun walking with a heavily tattooed lady, exchanging bracelets. I never did find out whether they were sisters or old friends, but their conversation seemed interesting. 

The street lady singing a capella on the Subte A-line.

The surly teen scrubbing down a section of sidewalk, and an elderly tenant stepping out to greet him in full porteño exuberance: ¡Hola nene! ¿Cómo le va, cariño? (Hey, kiddo! How's it going, dear?). Which brought a smile to the kid's pimpled face and a sparkle to the old man's. 

The kindergarten class with their homemade helmets on an outing to the park. 

The one time I offered to pray for a lady. She said yes, and that "you know, I have had lots of people come up to me and tell me that God loves me- I'm starting to think it must be true!"



...All that to say with an out of context verse:
"Don't be afraid- don't be silent! For I am with you...and I have many people in this city" (Acts 18:10)

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A walk in someone's shoes (boxes)

"Have you heard of Samaritan's Purse?" Jhoset asked. It was entirely out of the blue, as we'd just finished another round of ping-pong and Skittles, and it took me a while to decipher his "sawmoditas pores." Finally it clicked: shoeboxes! I told him that I'd packed one every year since I was a kid, and he nodded. "Maybe your box made it to my church. I'd always wondered who was on the other end...what does it look like?"

Turns out, I had the same question (and figured you might, too!). Per Jhoset, here's what a shoebox looks like on a receiving end: the good, the bad, and the unexpected. 

A typical shoebox
1. The boxes are not free. "Crates of shoeboxes are shipped to bigger churches, which then are supposed to distribute them to smaller churches. The reality is that the small churches have to pay for the extra shipping expense. My parents and a few other families in our church pooled our own money together for a carload; we didn't use tithe funds."

2. Some of the gifts are really cool. "You can tell the stuff they send is new. You've seen my sister's baby doll, right? That came in a shoebox over five years ago. She'd been wanting one so badly!" 

3. Favorite stuff? "Depends on the kid, but most like the crayons/colors that are mixed in with the school supplies, and classics like balls, cars and dolls. Some of the toys you send we haven't seen before!"

4. Sizes run small. "Where my parents were pastoring, up in the mountains, children are under-nourished and quite a bit smaller than kids here (in Argentina). The clothes in the boxes were huge so we switched them around- a shirt meant for a five-year-old we gave to a 9-year-old"

5. Not everything makes it through, but love does. "Some of the boxes have obviously been tampered with by the time they get to us, and there's a bit of an unofficial market on the boxes. But it is exciting to get presents from far away, and to know there are people who care about children and want to share Jesus with them. Thanks!"



Jhoset (and girlfriend Karol =)



Jhoset Pocco Tafur is a pastor's kid from the jungles of Peru and is currently living the urban wilds of Buenos Aires. He's a guitarist, practical joker, and the current reigning seminary ping-pong champion.



Wednesday, October 29, 2014

This is Halloween (be the jack o'lantern)


Grant & I, Halloween 2000?

 Imported holidays/traditions are interesting because they force me to evaluate not only what is normal, but what is right (the church jury is still out on the Easter egg debate, but if it’s chocolate, it must be right). I’d heard ‘Halloween is of the devil’ just enough times around here to get me thinking and involve my English class in the discussion of whether a Christian can celebrate the 31st.

Here’s where the discussion might get interesting: I celebrate Halloween. Pragmatically, I like candy, costumes, pumpkins, small adorable children wandering my neighborhood, and homemade donuts. Theologically, I find it redemptively in-line with the Christian ideals of generosity, interaction with the little ones, and a way to mockingly take death down a notch: light shines in the darkness brighter than any jack-o’lantern and Christ has defeated death forever...

BOO!


"Let's raise a cry against Halloween
Unfortunately, all of these reasons are likely to get lost under the shock of “how dare you?” I’ve never taken this reaction too seriously (after all, it’s been used in my family not too many generations ago to prohibit movies, makeup, or pants). I ponder this while I scroll past “protest Halloween” memes from here and Harvest party announcements from there: both from equally sincere believers with a similarly deep and real relationship with Jesus and- let’s face it- who probably coincide about 98% on doctrinal and theological matters. 
Church Harvest Party


What’s the difference, then?

I’m convinced it’s mostly contextual and cultural. When holidays hop continents, some aspects get lost and added. The innocence and community of the Halloween I grew up with gets lost in translation somewhere, and all that trickles through are horror movies and dark pumpkins. Christians here, being the generally conservative and reactionary group that we are, tend to reject it, and in that rejection, even demonize it.

It’s not wrong to reject a cultural practice- Christians have been doing that for centuries when they decided that it was not in line with their faith in their context to participate in the Coliseum, alcohol, nightclubs, or makeup. These rejections, however, should not define their faith (“Church-of-Jesus-who-turned-water-into-grape-juice” just doesn’t have a transcendent ring to it).

Christianity has always been a bit out of step with culture- and that’s part of its intrigue. A person who participates in a kingdom that’s “now and not yet” isn’t always going to go along with her culture’s status quo; someone who pledges allegiance to another King can’t heil Hitler or Obama or Cristina; someone who is awaiting a great banquet isn’t going to stuff himself with holiday candies. The conservatives are right when they say that light and darkness don’t mix.

Last year's jack o'lantern:
light in the Americas
But the light and darkness to have to touch at some point. There is no use in lighting a jack o’lantern and keeping it inside a well-lit kitchen. The light must shine in the darkness out on the front steps, finding places to illuminate. The light shines with redemption’s love.

However you celebrate or protest tomorrow, do so as light.


The light shines in the darkness; the darkness has not understood it and will not overcome it
-John 1:5 

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Five random firsts

By now, most of you have seen that I got my ears pierced- just another one of many first time experiences I've had here in these past month. I realize that since I don't get to talk with you most days, these firsts which would normally come up in conversation...don't. So, without further ado, some debatably notable "it happened in Argentina" moments:

1. That one time I bought mint-smelling soap thinking it would make me smell "fresh". Reality: it makes showering smell like a cough drop. Yum?

2. Or when I sold pancakes advertised as waffles because a) the waffle iron broke  b) most people here don't know the difference between pancakes and waffles and c) we were raising money for a speaker. Best quote from that day? "I have no idea what a waffle is, but I think I need one". Yes, yes you do.

3. Going to a guest lecture event here means that, about 5 minutes into the presentation, everyone breaks out the mate and yerba. This works well for coordinated people who can multitask. For me on Tuesday, I spilled the hot water and tea all over the floor and my bag. They told me they would never invite me out again. I think they were joking...

4. Today when I couldn't pronounce the word 'biodegradable' and sheepishly passed the bags out with a 'y'know, good for dogs and stuff'.

5. Singing 'Let it Go' at the top of my lungs in the park in front of a big cardboard boat. (The skit went well- thanks for your prayers!)

Just some happy, random moments of life!

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Coming Soon! (Palermo Update)

Imagine this entire post in a dramatic-movie-trailer-narrator-voice

Recently, in Plaza Armenia...
Balloons. Keychains.Video with little arrows.
Selling waffles. Buying speakers. Talking with "the regulars"

Just kidding, don't imagine the rest of this post in the movie trailer voice. It's way too vague.

What's with the waffles, you may ask? With a broken iron, we made pancakes with waffle batter and sold them as waffles to raise money for a nice battery-charged speaker, which we'll be inaugurating next Sunday for a drama/puppet skit. Part of Plaza Armenia is shaped like an amphitheater and several itinerant groups take advantage of that fact to perform music, do magic tricks, and clown shows. We thought we'd use it to do a skit.

Several drafts, rehearsals and a cardboard boat later, we'll finally get this show* on the road...er, park.

Pray with us:
-that the Holy Spirit would speak powerfully to the hearts of our audience, young and old
-that many would listen, respond, and choose life with Jesus (the crux of...everything)

Thanks!






*Synopsis "El Crucero de Jesus" (Jesus' Cruise)
Three people- a bum, a boxer, and a snob try to get on a cruise ship advertised as "the adventure of a lifetime". All try (and fail), until a little girl comes up, asks to get on, and climbs aboard. The cruise, as it turns out, is life with Jesus, and the child shows the other characters how they can get aboard, too. Spoiler alert: a parody of "Let it Go" is involved.
Not my most nuanced work, but I am very thankful to my experience with "Circle Time" in Backyard for writing children's ministry skits!

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Bureaucracy flow chart!

This, at any rate, is how I think the paperwork process in Argentina works, keeping in mind three important observations:
1. Bureaucracy= the inefficient working of people on dangerously low levels of coffee and happiness. 
2. The US is NOT part of MercoSur, which means that, while the process is longer, the lines are shorter, and you'll wait in them with Canadians and Germans, which is orderly and fun. 
3. The disconnected lines might be on purpose...





Sunday, October 5, 2014

Would you still? (A letter to 8 year old Jill)

Hello, 8 year old self (I know you're in there somewhere, because a few months ago, you started writing a journal- consider this the most recent entry),

A lot of things can happen in 15 years, you know, and it makes me feel impossibly old. When you play dress-up or make up stories, the maximum age you envision yourself is 16- practically an adult. Trust me, by 16 you may have a driver's license, a summer job, and the beginnings of another language, but not much else in the adulthood department. By 23 you still haven't gotten married or your ears pierced, so you should be happy to know that.

You still like rainy days.

You never do end up running away from home. Home is a good place, and you'd only leave for the adventure of it. Writing from Argentina, the adventure hasn't left you, and neither has home.

You'll have braces for longer than they tell you, and you'll forget about your retainer after a month.

You'll never make another friend quite like Amanda, although every friend you make will remind you of her in some way, and you won't ever take them- or life- for granted. You still enjoy plenty of "alone time".

But enough of this hypothetical telling you past-future things. Because right now, I'm writing a children's ministry skit and I want to ask you a question:

Would you still? 

I think you know what I'm talking about. That evening in your Newport bedroom (the walls were still pink, and you probably had a stuffy nose, like I do now...some things never change) when you prayed and "asked Jesus into your heart". On the one hand, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into. But then again, does anyone really know?

If you knew that simple prayer would define the next 15 years (and, God willing, more) of your life, would you still have prayed it? If you knew it would take you to The Dalles and Tennessee and Argentina and the ends of the earth, would you still have said yes?

I suspect you knew about as much as an 8 year old could, and maybe even more than this 23 year old does. But still...if you knew the years that I've lived now-  every tear, trail, anxiety, decision, homesickness, move, grade, friendship- would you still have decided to follow Jesus?

They told you it was absolutely free, but did they tell you it will cost you absolutely everything? 

Just a curiosity ;) Look forward to hearing back from you,

Peace, Jill

Friday, September 26, 2014

The story of a mint plant

This is the story of a mint plant, and maybe of me as well.

I'd been given a small budget of seminary money to buy plants at the central market, where we do most of our bulk grocery shopping. With $200 pesos ($15 US ish), I was able to get a few flowers- including a very fragrant jasmine and a tea version of the double-delight roses like my dad has always grown- and some herbs. Rosemary. Oregano. Strawberry. And a very persistent lemon mint plant.

Lemon mint!
I say persistent because I know that mint is basically a weed, and since I'm not the most experienced gardener, I figured it would be smart to have at least one plant I could still show in a few months.

...Which is why I was pretty devastated when I found it up on the terraza, wilted and crispy at the same time. Nearly dead. I had transplanted most of the other plants into larger pots, but had been nonchalant about the mint plant. "It's mint, it's a weed; what could possibly go wrong?" And yet, after less than 3 days, my mint plant in its original container was not showing many signs of life.

And yet, shortly after sunset, I dug a hole in the giant pot for the mini pine, smooshed my fingers through the mint's roots, tucked the plant in gently and doused the whole thing with water. The leaves were still crumbly, and I figured that the giant pot would be my poor little mint plant's grave.

But something remarkable happened.

When I tiptoed downstairs in the middle of the night (bedroom upstairs, bathroom downstairs...), I took a peek at the mint plant. It was as full-leafed and vivacious as the mint I remember along the Deschutes. It was fully alive.

The mint plant had cooked under the sun, not because it was a poor plant, but because its pot was too small for its roots. In such a small space, in the only home it had ever known, it could not thrive anymore. And so the good Gardener (or, in my case, the mediocre gardener with a lower case...I think you know where I'm going here) found it a bigger pot. A place where it could expand, grow, and live.

...Not a mint plant. But fully alive =)
I think it was St. Iraneus that said that the glory of God is man fully alive. It is to God's glory that we continue to grow in His fullness and likeness, even and especially when that means an occasional transplant.

Because the Kingdom of God is not unlike my little mint plant.

(Which, by the way, is not so little anymore).

Thursday, September 18, 2014

7 months- QUI TAL?

Today I celebrate my 7th-mes-versary (that's what you call such things, right?) here in Buenos Aires. In other words, I've been here a month longer than most study-abroad students, 6 months more than a Lee cross-cultural trip, 6 months and 2 weeks longer than the average "short term mission trip", and still 3 years less than an international university student and several decades less than a full-time missionary.

It's an interesting cross-road for sure. Depending on who I talk with, I get told that I've been here for a "quite a while" or "not long at all!" (the second response is more common with people who think I learned castellano here- my Spanish is more 7 years than 7th months in the making!). I have a foreign accent, although most can't quite place from where exactly (Germany? Paraguay?) and the seminarians have started teasing me about talking too porteña. I know the cheapest place to buy yerba but still haven't figured out the postal system. I can do full exegesis of an obscure text in my second language (and third, if we're going to count Koine Greek) but still can't keep my size 43 feet out of my mouth. Funny, eh?

There are moments when I feel like I just arrived and moments when I feel that I've always been here, and that the only reliable way to mark time is the growing water stain on my wall or the rising price of popcorn (which is the ultimate litmus test for the economy, although if you really want to know, the dollar has about doubled in value relative to the Argentine peso since I first arrived- qui tal?*). Either way, I can't imagine being anywhere else right now. After all, to misquote 'All the Places to Love', where else could tea and a class on the terraza make all the difference in the world?

Where indeed. When I embarked on this adventure 7 months ago, I mentioned that there were several things that I didn't know, and the unknown was frightening and daunting. Now I can see that the unknowns have been a blessing and an adventure.

Me, thinking about the things I didn't know I didn't know... 

       I didn't know how I was going to "survive" in my second language, but I also didn't know that one of my favorite activities would be our bilingual theology kitchen chats. Language, thank God, has been a source of fun and not frustration.



       I didn't know if I could live and teach with the same people, but I also didn't know that I could be the same person- and just as good of a teacher and student- in and out of the classroom. I didn't know how much they have become part of my heart.

     
I didn't know I'd watch so many of you get married from afar, that I'd go crazy over almost winning the World Cup, enjoy and conclude my first 'relationship', or learn that mayonnaise actually is pretty flavorful. I didn't know I'd come to know God's goodness and presence as I have.


...And, before I get too nostalgic, I'll leave it at that ;)



*'Quí tal?', or properly, '¿qué tal?' is an informal way of saying 'how's it going?' or 'how about that?' It also works as a filler when you don't have anything else to say. Huh- qui tal? 

Sunday, September 7, 2014

Plaza Armenia!

I mentioned a few weeks ago that we've changed location for our Sundays/Saturdays in the park. The Bosque was great for meeting large crowds of people from out in Provincia (beyond city limits), many of whom we never saw again. We did some praying and thinking (thinking: it's underrated), and after vacations we started hauling a seminary car full of us to Plaza Armenia.

Armenia, in addition to being fabulously hipster, is more of a "locals park." Most families come from within walking distance, and we see the same faces most weekends...still working on the names...  And, because there are so many kids running around, we have found something better than free hugs:

FREE BALLOONS!

...Complete with our facebook name (Comunidad del Bosque- feel free to add us and watch Google translate have fun deciphering our posts) and the cryptic gospel arrows that give us the opportunity to start a conversation about what we believe. Pretty cool, huh? We give out balloons, invite kids to color a keychain, talk and listen to whoever comes up, share a message and tea, and then pray with our eyes open; praying with our eyes open is a new development, since some street kids were trying to take our backpack!

So, in addition to wisdom to how to best love the street kids while still keeping resources to share, how can you pray with us? Gotta love that evangelical rhetorical question, eh?

Praise God-
That we are able to come into longer-term contact with our neighbors.
That the balloons have been a good connecting point.
That we've had ridiculously good weather.

Keep asking for-
God's kingdom to be a reality here in our midst as it is in heaven
More people to come to really know Jesus
Us to be wise in how we use our time and resources, and fully dependent on the Holy Spirit to speak the right words at the right times
Funds for a speaker/mic set so we can do puppets/skits (the plaza is noisy!)*
Again, wisdom for working with the street kids. They break our hearts, frustrate us sometimes...and the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

That's our new "home" in a nutshell! Thanks again for your prayers!







*The set we're looking at would run about $400-$500 (US). If you're interested in donating a luca (buck) or two to the cause, let me know. Can't hurt asking, right?