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!

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. 

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

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

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