Brand new shiny toy gift phone!

Meet my new phone. It is granny-smith apple green. It is sleek. It is not edible. I've been asked for many years now if I had one (when I didn't). And now I do.

The apple is not edible

Meet my i-phone (no. 5, currently nameless).

I'm not quite sure what to make of the "everyone has one" argument I'd been hearing. Will it be handy to have a camera again? Most certainly. Is it nifty to be able to see previous texts? Oh yes. Can I use it in my classroom? You'd better believe I will (audio recording, hello!)

But does everyone have one?  Taking a quick glance at most of the world, that'll be a resounding nope.

Then again, not everyone has parents who are still together, a bed, enough money for plane tickets to visit family, Bibles in my two languages, the promise of a hot dinner tomorrow (and two other meals, plus snacks), a bachelors degree, a healthy body and plenty of things to clothe it, a faithful computer (who turns 6 this year!), or even access to clean water.

I'm so ridiculously privileged I don't even realize it until I have a brand new shiny toy gift phone to make me remember.

I don't mean to sound like a downer about these things, but I guess this is where my mind goes when I'm thankful. I'm happily reminded that everything- like this phone- is a gift not meant to be hoarded but shared to bless others and bring the Kingdom a little bit closer to home. I'm humbly challenged that this phone (along with everything else) is an investment, and I am responsible to its true Owner. I may be taking this a bit too grandiosely, but after all, it's an i-phone. It can do stuff.

Okay, enough seriousness and Siri-ousness. I mentioned briefly that this brand new shiny toy gift phone is currently nameless; this puts it at odds with my other pricey possessions, which all have names (Mechitas the Mac, Eddy the car, Lucy the deceased camera, Enoch the trombone...etc.)

....Any suggestions?

The mud on our jeans

Tears are not uncommon on 2nd grade recess. Skinned knees, hurt feelings, accidental (?) pushes and reports that "she's not my friend anymore" swarm 2 feet below me, all of them wondering if I can fix it and asking in one way or another a fundamentally human question: am I going to be okay?

Sometimes, thought, the teary-eyed ones don't come to me, and I find myself drawn, like today, to the boy on the lonely bench. His hood is up because it's cold and because he doesn't want anyone to bother, or even see, him. 

I ask him what the matter is and he replies, shoulders shaking, that he tripped and got mud on his pants. 

"Oh kiddo, it'll wash!" I told him, repeating almost instinctually the advice my mom once gave me and likely my grandma once gave her (I wonder how many generations these phrases go back, but that's beside the point). 

He shook his head rather violently. "My mom will yell at me."

I bit my tongue a moment or two. He has mud on his jeans and is distraught at the idea of getting scolded and hurt for the sin of getting them dirty. 

...

Last night I woke up during a dreamed conversation with my cousin Ethan. He said he was going to preach about sin (this is what seminary has done to me, I guess, since he's never preached, although he is one of my favorite people to talk with...I'm guessing that's my dormant brain's connection), and so I asked him what his main point was and advised him to talk about sin in the light of grace and forgiveness. This is pretty profound, now that I think about it, and in line with Jesus' teachings. He talked an awful lot about what to do with the sister who sins against us (forgive as many times as it takes), the tax collector who can't even raise his head as he prays with his hood up in humble honesty and yet goes home right with God, the wasteful son who stumbles homeward with muddy jeans, destined to be a servant but welcomed into his Dad's arms. 

...

I turn again to the boy, and ask him a question I ought to ask myself more often: "what's more important- you, or the mud on your jeans? Which one matters most to your mom?"

Hiccup. "Me."

Of course, but how easily we forget it. The jeans will till have to be scrubbed, but they will wash. There is a way to be good again*, there is forgiveness, there are even new squelchy mud puddles to discover tomorrow. But under it all, there is the assurance that we are loved so much more than the mud on our jeans. 

And that means we are going to be okay. 

*A quote from one of my favorite books: The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini

**The pictures are not mine, they are respectively heisted from an outdoor clothing site (http://www.muddyfaces.co.uk/being_outdoors.php) and a random article about God's love (http://escapetoreality.org/2010/12/01/love-of-god/). I don't officially endorse either, although I enjoyed the article and definitely use clothes outdoors. 

Re-entry, or maybe I'm crazy sometimes

I'm sure the comparison has been made before, but there is something about culture adjustment (going from one country/culture to another) that is uncomfortably like being mentally, well, off. I won't say mental illness, which is a separate issue and way too heavy to compare to any plight of mine, present or past. But mentally off in the sense that most of my points of reference for what is normal/expected are suddenly shifted- ever so slightly- but just enough to throw me for an emotional loop.



There are the mornings I wake up and go downstairs for breakfast, and stand, somewhat overwhelmed, at the well-stocked kitchen shelves in front of me with no fewer than 6 kinds of tea (I'm indecisive even when faced between black and green tea). Then there are the mornings when I don't even leave my room before I'm astounded at the size of my room and the softness of the carpet and the smell of my books and the clothes in my closet (the ones I'd forgotten I'd had these past ten months). And there are even mornings when I don't even make it out of bed before I remember that I'm not on the top bunk and that my friends are thousands of miles away and in spite of the fact that I'm "home" I don't quite feel home.



And then there are mornings like today when I hear the lyrics "people are strange when you're a stranger" on the radio and start crying in the restaurant for no apparent reason, much to my (and my Dad's) bewilderment.



Like I said, re-entry = mentally off.


Or maybe I'm just "home" nowhere and everywhere at the same time.   

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