Vicki's Mountain Hi

A Little Quality Time With the Quito Police

2008-06-18T15:16:00.008-07:00

Last summer I had a close encounter with the police in Cusco, Peru. And, again, in Lima. It was one thing for the Cuzqueño chief of police to fingerprint me, but when Lima’s armed guards pulled me out of the line in which I had been standing, mostly innocently, for a very long time, confiscated my camera because I had snapped a picture of the U.S. Embassy in Lima, and grilled me about my activities, that was another matter entirely. However, that was last year.

I only had one run-in with the police on this year’s trip. The night we flew out of Quito, Josh thought he heard a page for me in the airport. How in the world could Josh decipher that garbled communiqué? We had barely understood anything during the entire trip!

Sure enough, when Amy and I checked in at the gate, the armed security guard immediately whisked us both down the stairs, out of the airport, into the night, past the drug-sniffing dog, and onto the edge of the tarmac, in the rain. The guard deposited us in front of a small glug of luggage and asked us each to identify ours. The police and soldiers forced us to go through everything, asking intimidating questions the whole time. These fellows were the embodiment of stoicism. None smiled. Ever. One rested his hand on his semi-automatic while a colleague pulled each item from the suitcases. Most of the things were boring travel items. The guy grimaced when he unbundled wet, sandy cargo pants. I wanted to explain we had been rafting, but this guy was Señor Focus. As it turned out, the luggage they asked me to inspect was actually Steve's, but I was thankful they pegged me instead of him because Steve doesn't speak a syllable of Spanish and these guys didn’t appear to have an ounce of English in them.

What I was too terrified to tell the armed guys was that there were items in Steve's suitcase I had never seen. A spray can of Coppertone SPF 50, a large bottle of Pantene Pro V conditioning shampoo, hairclips, nighttime lotion, Krazy Glue, and more. It was so weird. Then it hit me! Someone must have planted that stuff, along with a Ziploc baggie of cocaine. They had likely stuffed the bag of drugs into one of Steve's wet, sandy tennis shoes. It was only a matter of time before I was history. The longer the guy dug in the bag, the more my forehead became sweaty, and my hands grew clammy, just like they used to do at junior high dances when Mike Carriker and his dimple smiled at me.

Farther down the line, Amy seemed to be holding her own just fine. I took slow, deep breaths and tried not to look as rattled as I felt. This was no small matter. We had a problem, Houston. I’d read a few accounts of FARC guerrillas crossing the Ecuadorian borders and accusing North Americans of international espionage. According to them, we were all members of the CIA. Would I get a trial? A phone call? A Marlboro? After a few grueling hours, or perhaps just 17 minutes, they released both of us. I was happy to be alive. Amy whispered, “That wasn’t too bad, was it?” I mumbled something about how we’d talk about it later. She and I held soggy hands as the guard escorted us out of the rain, past the drug dog, into the lighted airport, and up the stairs.

At the gate, the security guards detained us again, until our plane boarded. One policeman kept talking on his walkie-talkie, glancing at us, and nodding. I figured he must have been informed about that baggie in the tennis shoe. Finally, he approached us and wanted a breakdown of what had happened downstairs, outside. Amy and I looked at each other and didn’t say anything. He asked again, noticed our blanks, pointed to our group, and then said, “Pues, vayanse con sus amigos.” Whew!

Once reunited, everyone pressed us for details. I told Steve about all the weird stuff in his bag. He laughed. When Marci had left our hotel at 4:15 that morning to catch her flight she had given him a Wal-Mart bag of all the stuff that wouldn't fit in her suitcase! Funny. Real funny.

Good thing those guys didn't find the picture I took of the U.S. Embassy in Quito. . .

Salsa-ing with the best of them!

2008-06-17T16:44:00.005-07:00

It's hard to believe one week ago today we were squaring off in a mirror-lined room, ready to begin Salsa lessons in Quito. One would think that after investing a childhood learning to play the clarinet that I would have some sense of rhythm. Not so. Every time I’ve tried to take dance lessons, the result has been a predictable imbroglio. The best dancing I’ve ever done was at Jenny & Joe’s wedding reception. I’ve heard there’s a family video and I suppose if someone were ever desperate enough, it would make incredible blackmail material.

All of us were stoked for the lessons. Well, perhaps "stoked" is an exaggeration. We were all “committed.” Now that I think of it, “all” is an exaggeration also. Juan Pablo insisted on babysitting our bus, instead of joining us on the dance floor. Red flag.

I don’t recall hearing the names of our four instructors. Frankly, they intimidated me. Two of them specialized in scrutinizing our group, then pointing, and laughing. Our principal instructor barked broken English over the throbbing CD. He sprinkled jabs throughout his instruction. “Come on, you Colorados. You don’t dance in that ways in Colorado, do you? Oh, Colorados, you don’t got it.” The fourth guy didn’t teach at all; he was adept at watching himself gyrate in the mirrors.

A teacher, among other things, ought to inspire confidence; I began having my doubts when ours instructed us to count the dance steps like this uno, dos, tres, cinco, seis, siete. What the heck happened to cuatro? I’ll admit cuatro is not my favorite number, but it’s functional. “Now, class, two plus two equals………um, let’s see, we abolished cuatro, so we’ll have to think of something else. While we’re thinking, let’s do a little art lesson. This geometric shape is a rectangle. Rectangles have………wait-a-min-ute….. we killed cuatro. Um, class, rectangles have two sides here and two sides there. Let’s go outdoors for recess.”

When we were planning this trip to Ecuador I had asked the kids if they would like to take salsa lessons. Only one girl said yes. So, I explored options and discussed them with Peter: take an art lesson with one of Ecuador's up and coming artists, listen to a reading by one of Quito's writers, or take salsa lessons. The kids then voted unanimously for salsa lessons. While we were dancing I could tell they loved it! They really loved it.

And, without naming names, I will say that all but two of us got the hang of salsa-ing. Since Steve and I had exhausted ourselves by providing everyone with comic relief on the dance floor, we felt it was important to use the remainder of the class time to fortify the group with encouraging words, and cold botellas de agua sin gas.

Next time, I will flip Juan Pablo for the babysitting job.

Ciao Ecuador

2008-06-10T22:17:00.001-07:00

Alejandra says there are more than 1,000 guides in Quito. It just so happens that she and Fabricio are friends! So, last night she called him and he contacted the bus driver. He had found our camera while cleaning the bus!! After talking with Fab, he arranged to deliver the camera to a central location. Alejandra and Juan Pablo rendezvoused with them while we were at salsa lessons. I’m so grateful for the level of integrity these guys possess. Latin Frontiers chose well when they contracted with them.

This morning we walked to the Museo Nacional del Banco Central del Ecuador. My favorite section was the displays of elaborately designed artifacts of gold and silver. And, I liked the mummy. Mummies intrigue me. Three years ago, Steve and I saw the famous Peruvian mummy, Juanita. I probably have the details goofed up, but I remember hers being a morbid, tragic story. Juanita was a young teen, appropriately groomed to be a chaste sacrifice. It seems “they” forced her to walk from Cuzco to Arequipa. The trek likely left her exhausted and malnutritioned. When they reached the destination, a priest bludgeoned her in the head and left her to die on the mountain.

Modern art occupied another section of the museum. When I entered the large room, I was shocked to see an Asian businessman peeing on the floor. I kept averting my eyes, but he continued to stand there with his pants around his ankles. Then I realized he was a statue.

For some warped reason, I could not tear myself from the black and white video of the slaughterhouses. It was horrifying, yet magnetic and persuasive. No doubt, the tofu industry had produced it.

We left the museum and I surprised the kids by letting them eat lunch at McDonald’s. It was the first American food we had eaten in a week and a half. None of them had displayed any obvious withdrawal symptoms.

We did volunteer work at the orphanage, Hogar del niño San Vicente de Paul. Alejandra had never been there. She and Amy cried while we were cuddling babies in the infant ward. Later, I learned that Amy had been adopted out of an orphanage at the age of three. We played with the kids for a long time and left our gifts with the secretary. It was fun watching Steve play trucks in the grass with one of the little boys. Devin gave a soccer ball to a mentally retarded teen boy. They connected; I love priceless gifts.

River Rats

2008-06-09T23:48:00.017-07:00

We went white water rafting today down a Class III/IV river. It was the biggest adrenaline rush of this trip! Alejandra couldn’t join us so Fabricio and Arturo were the experienced river runners with us. I liked both of them.

The entry point was about a three-hour drive from Quito. The highest point of the drive was 14,000’ and we continued to drop in elevation until we reached the river at 1500’. As we wound through the mountains those river guys rarely spoke. However, as soon as the river came into view, they all slid to the windows and fixated on the water. Their talk became animated and their eyes widened. I got excited just watching them get excited!

Fabricio gave the best rafting instructions I’ve ever received. He taught us several codes for paddling and we practiced maneuvers for half an hour in calm water before entering white water. Steve’s favorite command was “Inside, Inside!”

Three kids went overboard, but didn’t suffer. Two sections of the river were dramatic Class IVs. Fabricio and Arturo opted for us to skirt the worst section on foot. They and the other guide maneuvered the two rafts through the narrow part by themselves. The danger of this particular area was the presence of underwater caves. They didn’t want to risk any of us toppling overboard and becoming trapped in a cave. Steve and I appreciated their cautionary judgment.

When we arrived at the end of the trip four hours later, our bus driver had prepared dinner for us. He had assembled three tables topped with blue tablecloths and had prepared a do-it-yourself chicken burrito bar beyond my imagination. The food was delicious and our favorite was his homemade guacamole.

As soon as we finished eating, I offered to help pack up all the containers of leftovers. The driver immediately stopped me and said in Spanish, “We will share our food with the villagers who are playing and washing in the river.” And, that’s exactly what we did. He hollered at the splashing villagers and they joined our picnic. Then he told the kids to go to their casas and bring back their parents. They did. Two moms toted home the remainders. The kids in our group, and all of us, really, were amazed. One of the things I really like on a trip with teens is for them to be privy to cultural differences. They noted that we could likely never reenact that picnic in the States. Strangers aren’t that approachable. And, even if someone would allow an invitation, who would accept it? We are leery of contamination, lawsuits, and ill will.

Steve liked Arturo just as he liked Marco when we were on the Amazon two years ago. On the drive back to Quito, Steve asked me to see if Arturo would trade work caps with him. Arturo didn’t hesitate a moment before removing his cool Ecuador Adventure Active Travel hat and handing it to Steve. Their smiles defy description.

Back at our hotel, we dragged out of the bus, wet, tired, sandy, and weatherworn. It’s often difficult for me to be intentional with planning, particularly when teens are involved. Even though we were all shot from the rafting, I wanted everyone to experience one more moment. Kelsey chose not to be a team player. I asked everyone to clean up and then meet in the lobby in half an hour. In the meantime, I arranged for three taxis to pick us up. The kids were amazed to be using taxis! Half of them actually squealed! Most had never ridden in a taxi. We arrived at Café Mosaico, an old house set high atop a hill overlooking Old Town. Our table was inlaid with beautiful hand painted mosaic tiles. The name “café” is misleading; it is more like an assembling of Ecuador’s elite, and we river runners were allowed to crash the party. The Mosaico offers a panoply of spectacular views—particularly stunning at night. While waiting for our food, I asked Marci to debrief the group. She taught about reverse culture shock and the kids absorbed it. Then we spent a few minutes recording reflections of the trip.

When we returned to the hotel, Marcelo called our room to make sure we’d had a good day rafting and to see if he could assist us with anything. Latin Frontiers has taken excellent care of us just as Peru Gateway has done in the past. In fact, yesterday there were small gifts at the desk for each of us from Latin Frontiers: shadow boxes filled with various sculpted scenes from everyday life in Ecuador: a bakery making empanadas, a balcony terrace, a bunch of cuy on a grill, etc. Peter could not have suggested a better itinerary for us!

Before climbing into bed, I decided to look at the day’s pictures. It was then that I realized I had left our camera on the bus. My heart sank. I figured we’d never see the camera again. When we were in Honduras two years ago, Tom left his camera in the van and never regained it. Even though I truly believe God can do the impossible, I had only a shred of faith as I asked him to help us recover our camera. As soon as I finished praying, the phone rang. It was Marcelo again. He finalized the time we would do volunteer work at the orphanage tomorrow. I told him about the camera and he said he would do everything he could to help us.

I suppose I shouldn’t have written that I “finished” praying. I actually spent a fitful night praying. I wasn't attached to the camera; I wanted the pictures.

Tucanopy Zip Lining

2008-06-08T22:42:00.014-07:00

Last night was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in about a month. I could have stayed in the cloud forest at least a week. This morning we took a beautiful long difficult hike. We began at the top of the forest and wound our way to the bottom, often hiking through the middle of a rushing stream. At one point, we tied a rope around our waists and scaled a large boulder. Marci missed the first foothold and swung under a waterfall. When it was my turn to cross, I couldn’t get adequate traction halfway through the crossing so Steve immediately scaled the rock without a rope and rescued me. All but two of our group waded through waist deep water to stand beneath a gorgeous waterfall before hiking back to the top of the forest.

We left Bellavista and headed to the Tucanopy in the cloud forest, near Nanegalito, northwest of Quito. Three years ago, this family run business sprouted as a means of improving the local economic base. The income also helps them pursue conservation projects. This family of biologists conducts several studies and hosts research teams. One of the daughters had just returned from studying in Alamosa, Colorado. Something I learned is that palm trees are becoming endangered because of the high demand by churches to use fronds on Palm Sunday. This type of zip lining was a new experience for all of us. We wore helmets and halters and listened attentively to instructions. The pet pig, Julia, inspected us. Tucanopy has six runs of various lengths and is the longest canopy in Ecuador. It was tons of fun! A few times, we could actually touch trees and palm branches while zipping. The amazing thing was the brake. It was a thick rectangular piece of leather with finger holes. When we approached the end of a run, the instructor held up one arm for us to apply the brake onto the cable. If she held up two arms, we would top the brake with both hands and pull down. My biggest fear was that I wouldn’t be able to see any arms through the clouds and would crash into the steel pillar. On the drive back to Quito Alejandra found a roadside restaurant for us. There were fourteen of us total. She ran into the kitchen to see if they had sufficient food for all of us. I had never considered that a restaurant might not have adequate food. We live in such a surplus society. When she returned, she told us the cook had enough food to make six small pizzas, six truchas, and two chicken platters. Amazing! It was delicious and some of the kids said it was the best pizza they had ever eaten.

Clouds, clouds, clouds

2008-06-07T22:06:00.034-07:00

We are in the cloud forest and I LOVE it! It has the ambience of The Great Smoky Mountains. Peter could not have chosen a more beautiful place for us.

On our way here, we stopped at a butterfly farm

near Mindo. Marci said butterflies creep her out. I didn’t know that. I also learned that birds creep out Aimee. More insights. I’m only the mother. Anyway, we watched two butterflies emerge from cocoons and dry their wings. Very cool! I will have to admit that the Owl’s Eye butterfly is creepy. It looks like a fish head. My favorite butterfly is that cool fluorescent blue one, the Blue Morpho Butterfly. It's very difficult to capture with a camera. We saw orchids growing in the wild.

We enjoyed a delicious trout lunch with pumpkin soup here at the bamboo & brick Bellavista Lodge. We are the only ones overnighting here, besides the staff. Steve is sick. He stayed in bed under layers of wool blankets and I turned on the portable electric heater for him. Our place is cool. Steve and I have six beds, two on the main floor, and four upstairs in the loft. It reminds me of the speaker’s cabin at Twin Peaks. Marci and Leah each have their own room below us.

The view from
our deck is incredible. I love swinging in the hammock, watching the clouds play tag with our trees.

Erik is our hiking guide. He’s so knowledgeable. We each selected a pair of sturdy rubber boots, a long walking stick, and heavy-duty hooded poncho.

He said today’s hike was a test so he could evaluate our stamina for tomorrow’s hike. Marci said Erik looks like a hooded Moses in rubber boots leading the children of Israel! I acted like an adult and told the kids to pay attention to everything Erik told us because rain forests and cloud forests are grocery stores and pharmacies. He didn’t let us down. Local women use the first plant he showed us as a contraceptive. A few of the teen girls were interested in the next plant because it helps relieve cramps and mood swings. He said it wouldn’t do them any good because they would have to use it for at least a month, not just today! I liked the healing tree. When one cuts the bark and applies the sap to a wound, the owie will close over and heal quickly.

Leah and Marci used the monkey tail vine to morph into monkeys. We ate a few of the purple flowers that Erik said were edible. He also showed us strands of black pearl berries. He said we could sample one or two but they are hallucinogenic when consumed in larger quantities. We all watched him pop a handful into his mouth. Shortly afterward, he acted a little funny. I asked him a question and noticed his glazed eyes. He just stared at me for a long time before saying anything. Marci and Leah laughed. At dinner, Leah and Marci entertained our group with hilarious stories. Marci feigned ignorance of Spanish and invented a lot of Spanglish like "coconates," sending the teens into fits of uncontrollable laughter. The guys in our group were chivalrous on the hikes. Alejandra commented that they were gentlemen and of the quality she would like to find. I will remember to tell their parents.

Andes Mountain High

2008-06-06T20:51:00.019-07:00

We left Baños, sigh, and headed to the Porvenir Hacienda, three hours away. The last volcanic eruption had destroyed some of the highway of our route, so we had to skirt construction crews clearing the grey material. Alejandra explained about the homemade, AKA redneck, bullfights in Machachi. Btw, Machachi has to be my new favorite word! I love Spanish words with many “ch” sounds. Once a year self-proclaimed boozed-up chagras set up a bullfighting ring in a street near the town’s plaza using sheets of plywood. It is a popular destination for spectators from neighboring towns, villages, and Quito. Someone releases a bull and the chagras swing into action. Since they are pretty well pickled, the bull makes a bunch of gore scores. ¡Viva el machismo!

The road to Porvenir is a massage--miles and miles of cobblestones. Poor Juan Pablo and those tires. He bought a new baseball bat at the wooden spoon stand so he could use it for checking the tires. I never understood what he did with that bat and those tires, but on every trip, he would periodically pull over and check the tires by smacking each one with the bat, jump back on the bus with a happy bobbing head, and flash his dimpled grin. He is twenty-nine and the father of three children. The oldest is thirteen and the youngest is a toddler. He and his wife are divorced. She and the kids live in Guayaquil and he in Quito. He told me it’s very difficult. Divorce is one of those deaths that rarely die.

We saw amazing living fences. Ranch hands cut fence posts from the Survivor Tree. These posts eventually take root and branch out, creating a thick windrow.

As we pulled into the driveway of the hacienda, Marci walked through the doorway and ran toward us. Marci! It was a happy reunion. Marci, being Marci, will love her way into everyone’s heart and our group will become stitched to her just as if they’d known her for years. That’s just Marci. She loves easily and freely and is everyone’s best friend.

The chagras saddled the horses while we ate a delicious lunch. We each wore wooly chaps and woven wool ponchos. My horse’s name was Chuliguay, a Quechuan name. People at the hacienda couldn’t translate it because they only speak Spanish. Steve wants to name our first grandson Chuliguay because it rolls off the tongue so easily and sounds cool!

The weather, Marci reminded me, was exactly like the scene in Man from Snowy River where they are riding in the mountaintops and Jim Craig talks about how great the mountains are and then storms roll in. “One minute they’re your best friend and the next they’re trying to kill you.” Steve and I had a good visit with the chagra who rode at the rear with us. His name is Selso and he has worked for the hacienda for thirteen years. The hacienda owners live in Quito. Selso and his wife own a house near the hacienda; have four kids, two horses, one cow, and twenty chickens. I asked if they would have more children because at one time Alejandra told us it is common for mountain families to have ten or more. He smiled and said, “No, la fábrica está cerrada!” Steve found a $10 bill in the grass as we rode back to the hacienda. We asked our group and couldn’t find the owner, so we told Selso it was un regalo del cielo for him.

The kitchen staff had prepared cups of hot cider for us after the ride. Alejandra added brandy to each of our cups—always the personal touch! It didn’t take long to warm up and dry off and then we were on the road again.

Back in Quito, we took Marci to Yayuna for dinner. It is so her kind of place. She loved it, as I knew she would. She took several pictures to tuck away for decorating ideas.

La Avenida de volcanes

2008-06-05T12:00:00.056-07:00

Marci arrives in Quito tonight! I love that she is able to join us. The idea of horse backing in the Andes with her dad sealed the deal. Is this the good news or the bad news? I am fizzling out on blogging. I may resort to just using bullets. Alejandra says St. Peter is Quito’s patron saint and he must like us because he is giving us good weather and clear skies to see the magnificent volcanoes: Chimborazo, the highest, and The Cotopaxi, which 70% of the time is shrouded in clouds. One must approach photo ops of The Cotopaxi with a carpe diem mindset.

We stopped at a roadside stand near Lasso and bought ice cream bars and wooden spoons from a

lady who makes ceramics and covers them with woven reeds. Beautiful! Alejandra encouraged us to sample the country’s favorite snacks: habas. They are deep fried salted lima beans, similar to crunchy kettle chips. Very good, even for one who dislikes real lima beans.

We followed a pickup that was loaded with about 20 people. It reminded me of the times twenty-two of us squished into the back of a pickup in Bolivia, redefining “mass-transportation.” As we passed the many cabbage fields near Unamucho, Alejandra told us that Unamucho is Quechuan for . . . hmm . . ., “something kiss.” I can’t remember the adjective.

In Ambato, we lunched on cuy, conejo, and pollo. Cuy does not taste a lot like chicken; it is a rodent. It is a rodent. The good thing is that even a large piece of cuy hardly has any meat on it. Some families build a sunken room in their house for keeping their herd of cuy. They are not jumpers so they are confined, sometimes 200-300, in that holding room, until suppertime.

We saw several members of the Salasaca tribe near the base of the active Tungurahua Volcano. They are attractive and, like other indigenous people, are distinctive in their appearance. The women wear black Fedoras, shawls of purple, red, or maroon, and black skirts. They smile a lot.

Never in a zillion years would I have dreamed I’d need to deal with my coulrophobia in Ecuador. Salcedo is a clown town. Every ice cream shop, and there are many, uses trashcans topped with clown heads. If I lived in Salcedo, I’d swear off ice cream.

Pelileo is a jeans town. There are jeans for sale all over the place—in stores, on the streets, and hanging on clotheslines from building to building. An effective marketing strategy.

Outside of Baños there are a few long, unlit tunnels carved into the mountains. Some are even one lane. I never determined how to know if another vehicle were approaching.

Josh, Kelsey, and Ashley have to be the bravest teens I know. They all bridge-jumped! The kids tried to peer-pressure Alejandra into jumping too, but even after a cigarette, she couldn’t do it. Youtube has a few video clips of people bridge jumping in Baños. Amazing!

Latacunga is near The Cotopaxi. Years ago, when the volcano erupted it totally buried the town. The current town is 10 meters above the former. The local specialty is chugchucaras. It consists of slabs of deep fried pork, a few potatoes, boiled hominy (mote), deep fried plantains & popcorn, pork rinds, and sundry empanadas. People serve aji with this kind of food. Aji is a dipping sauce made with hot peppers, tomatoes, cilantro, and onions. Even a bowl of popcorn and fried plantains is accompanied by a spicy cup of aji. Good stuff!

We rode in a gravity-powered cage across a canyon and river to the Bridal Veil Waterfall. Once on the other side, we hiked to another waterfall, ate fresh tangerines, and played on a tire swing at the edge of the trail.

We hiked to the Pailon del diablo—Devil’s Cauldron. The jungle was lush and humid and the falls big and refreshing. A guy in the bamboo lodge served us tomates de árbol. It’s so fascinating to discover different fruits and vegetables. Someone had made a sign on the trail: Look for God. Listen for him in the silence of nature.

I like Baños a lot. It’s quaint, peaceful, lush, and beautiful. The people are friendly and helpful. Years ago, visiting Hungarians who couldn’t resist the waterfall and thermals built our hotel, the Sangay.

We ate at an Italian place tonight because the kids wanted pizza. Of course, pizza in South America is not like Papa Murphy’s. It’s generally baked in a stone oven and topped differently. I love it, but opted for a pasta trio. Jungle troubadours serenaded us while we ate. Several of us purchased their CD. Wahoo! Marci called to tell us she had landed and was on her way to the Fuente de piedra hotel. We will connect with her tomorrow at the Porvenir Hacienda where we will ride horses on the side of the volcano. I’m very impressed with Latin Frontiers. They picked her up and escorted her to the hotel.

A Day of Firsts

2008-06-04T23:10:00.026-07:00

Today we drove on the Pan American Highway. Acacia trees line the highway as part of a reforestation project. Their beauty is delicious! Structurally, there’s nothing spectacular about the highway itself; however, it’s the materialization of an incredible concept. Construction of the highway connecting the hemispheres began in the 1940s. The 16,000-mile road officially starts at the border between the United States and Mexico and ends at the tip of South America, más o menos. It wends through sweltering jungles and icy mountain peaks. Even though the air was cool while we traveled, we kept the windows closed because of the suffocating exhaust fumes. Ecuador keeps its fuel refining to a minimum so the gas prices are able to hover around $1.48 a gallon.

We glimpsed a smoking volcano. This will likely sound twisted, but I so wished it would have erupted while we were there. I talked with a believer who works as a waitress in Cotacachi. We had a rich time talking about our relationship with the Lord. It will be fun to see her again, here, there, or in the air! While Steve and I walked the plaza in Cotacachi, he bought me a wee bottle of Coke because my stomach was queasy after lunch. The rest of our group had already eaten and we told them to check out the leather shops in town while we stayed behind to pay the bill. While waiting for the cashier to total our orders, an Asian woman at a nearby table began screaming at the top of her lungs. She claimed there were maggots crawling in her food. Even now, it makes my skin tingly just remembering her horror. It had been a very respectable restaurant until the maggots moved in. . . . Steve and I chose not to tell the others.

We spent a little time in the Otavalo market. Many say it is the biggest, most famous in Ecuador, and perhaps in all of South America. Steve and I particularly enjoyed bartering for a black and white alpaca bolsa for Aimee. The vendor was a sun-shriveled Otavaleña who wore two long black braids, a black Fedora, purple shawl, multiple gold beaded necklaces, and layered skirts. Just as we were about to seal the deal, she suddenly held up her hand, signaling us to wait. I assumed I had flubbed up my Spanish and she was trying to sort it out before going on. Instead, she reached into the folds of her top skirt, pulled out her cell phone, and answered the incoming call. Technology has invaded the Andes.

The Rosadex rose plantation is awesome! http://www.rosadex.com/. One of the two owners actually led us on a guided tour. The plantation encompasses 22 acres with over 75 varieties of roses. We saw every fascinating phase of production from seedling to shipping. Seventy percent of these roses end up in the U. S. Russia orders the longest stemmed roses. My favorites were the lime green roses and the deep blue roses. As of yet, there’s no such thing as a natural blue rose. Once they receive an order for blue roses, they begin watering white roses with blue dye. They are gorgeous. When we finished visiting the roses, the owner invited us to tour his hacienda, La Compañía and to eat with him and his wife. In front of the hacienda, there is a lovely fountain. Rose petals float in the fountain’s pool. Each room displays huge vases of artistically arranged roses to match the room’s décor. The owner, his wife, and staff treated us like royalty. He reminds me of Dad. . . I told him in Spanish that he must have the world’s worst problem. He cannot buy his wife roses for their anniversary.

He laughed and said, "No, but there is always chocolate!" Before leaving, they gifted each of us with handfuls of chocolate, a long-stemmed rose, and a lifetime of warm memories.

Tonight I gave everyone a YOYO evening. No formal supervision, no curfew. I'm a little weary of being an adult. Steve and I ate Mexican food at The Red Chile Pepper in the hub. Good stuff. The waiter offered us hot chocolate or ice cream after our meal. I added Vicki Loves Steve to the graffiti on the wall by our table. Veinte-somethings and casual business people frequent this place; we were the only gringos. We joined the other patrons in watching the fútbol semi-finals between Argentina and Brazil. Ecuador is cheering for a chance to play Brazil and so am I. This country is quickly stitching itself to my heart. The hotel’s electricity was off when we got back. Kinda fun. Steve borrowed Juan Pablo’s pliers to open the lock on Devin’s suitcase. It’s fun being married to a hero.

The Waistline of the World

2008-06-03T22:43:00.027-07:00

Our hotel’s continen-tal breakfast consisted of fresh-squeezed guava juice, buns, butter, guava jam, eggs (fritos, revueltos, or omelets—always order “bien cocidos” or the eggs will be rare), toast, watermelon slices, pineapple slabs, and coffee, tea, or hot chocolate. Our waitress is cute and very cheerful. We bought four botellas de agua sin gas for the morning and dropped them into our daypacks. They were ninety cents each, which seemed reasonable to me.

It’s nice to have Leah along. She fits in well with the kids and they seem to like her. In May, she studied sociology for a few weeks in Chile with a group of students from Ft. Lewis College. Then, she took a side trip to Argentina, and spent a week in Peru before joining us. She attended the same Peruvian language school in San Blas, as we had attended last summer. She and the kids talk about movies and songs. She and I talk about South American novelists and artists, and she fills us all in on the German-designed concentration camps in Chile. She is well versed in the Pinochet and Allende regimes. Btw, we received a little news from the U.S. while on this trip: Ted Kennedy survived brain surgery for the removal of the cancerous tumor, and Hillary Clinton is out of the race for Democratic Presidential candidate. To my complete surprise, the entire group of teenagers, plus Alejandra and Juan Pablo clapped and whooped upon hearing that last bit of news.

Since the weather was beautiful this morning, we went straight to the center of the world. Ecuador means equator. Why would I even feel compelled to type that? There are two locations people visit—the old site and the new: El mitad del mundo and El museo de sitio intiñan. We went to the new one first because it is a living museum and the more precise location of the exact latitude 00° 00’ 00”. Our group did several experiments: balancing an egg on the head of a nail, trying to muscle-down raised arms, breaking apart thumb and forefinger loops, keeping one’s balance while extending arms out straight at sides (shoulder level, eyes closed, thumbs up), draining water from a sink on the northern hemisphere, southern hemisphere, and equator. The owner of the museum has little twin sons. One is plagued with leukemia. The museum sells $3 lottery tickets to help fund his treatments. We walked around the property and entered some soddies with thatched roofs. One contained a herd of guinea pigs in the corner. Arturo said that if we had a good spirit, the guinea pigs would be quiet when we approached them, and if not, they would go berserk. Good thing Mark wasn’t along! Arturo showed us a shrunken head encased in a glass display box, accompanied by a graphic chart with directions for making a shrunken head. So, now we know! The kids blew homemade darts with a blowgun pipe, aiming at a palm cactus several feet away. Arturo stamped our passports with the middle of the world stamp. He didn’t have to do that, but I’m glad he did. I really like an inked-up passport!

On the drive back to Quito, Alejandra took us to an ice cream shop: Helado de paila. She said there are only three such places in Quito. It was delicious! There were about 10 or 12 fruity choices—mostly fruits we don’t have here in the States. We got two scoops for $1.00. While we were eating, the owner came out and made a batch for us. The attractive pony tailed Quechuan man used a galvanized washtub filled with large chunks of ice. He set a heavy copper wok inside the bed of ice and poured in a pitcher of fresh-squeezed raspberry juice. He spun the wok by the handles for about five minutes. Then he used a large wooden spoon to scrape the frozen sides. After about ten more minutes, the ice cream had set up and he gave us a sample. It was far superior to what we had just eaten, and I didn’t think that could be possible.

We rode the teleférico to the top of the Pichincha Volcano in Quito. Very cool—literally! Pichincha’s elevation is 15,696 ft. Alejandra said it’s possible to hike from the base to the top of the volcano, but it takes several hours. Shakira had contributed to the financing of this huge gondola. It has nine cars. Veteran downhill skiers are accustomed to gondolas, but for me, it was a new experience; there are no gondolas on the bunny slope! The setup is reminiscent of scenes from one of my favorite old movies, Where Eagles Dare starring Richard Burton. While waiting for a car, six of us at a time stood on large painted dots. When the car approached, we climbed in. No guards, no bars across our midsections, no seat belts. It was great! Once at the top, we entered the lookout tower. The views snatched my breath. There were a few mounted telescopes, but Steve’s binoculars were sufficient. We bypassed the café and gift shop and hiked farther up the volcano. I stopped often to try to find my next breath and to absorb the beauty. The clouds hugged the mountaintops, blanketing the peaks. Our hearts had come home.

Before eating, we wandered through the underground maze of the Tianguez gift shop in Colonial Quito. Each room boasted a different psychedelic color—a quick trip back to the 70s! The maze was somewhat cool and somewhat creepy since it wound under the San Francisco cathedral like catacombs. At every turn, I expected to bump into bins of skulls and femurs.

We lunched at 3 PM in Tianguez, a great little outdoor café. Our wrought iron tables and chairs faced the government buildings. Alejandra told us the President of Ecuador, Rafael Correa, chooses to live in his own residence instead of the Presidential Palace. I was delighted to see Lomo on the menu, so I ordered it and was not disappointed. It was delicately seasoned and smothered in a mushroom sauce with a side of yuca--my favorite. Ecuador has two popular bottled sodas, Fiora fresa, and Fiora manzana. For some reason, drinks just taste better from glass bottles. I had the strawberry version and Steve drank the apple. Very refreshing.

We toured two cathedrals. Such magnificent architecture. Alejandra obtained permission for us to climb up to the choir loft. Way cool! For Steve, Kelsey and me, it was a déjà vu experience. It could have been a parallel reality with the cathedral in Lima. Alejandra told us that a naughty priest must crouch inside the choir’s music turnstile for the entire three-hour service, as penance. Yikes! Can you imagine the claustrophobic agony of such a private confessional? Since I’m not Catholic, I don’t know if the similarities in architectural design of that loft and the one in Lima are due to Roman Catholicism, the Spaniards’ influence, or something else. At any rate, because we love Peru so much, it felt as though we were home.

Afterward, we chilled in our rooms for an hour, and then ducked into the corner Internet cabina. There were only three available computers.

Steve and Leah walked to a bookstore to shop for a cookbook Leah wanted for her dad. I called all three of our kids. Linda’s cell plan charges $2.49 per minute for international calls, but the phone booths at the cabina were twenty-five cents per minute. Btw, Ecuador adopted the U.S. dollar in 2000, as its national currency. Panama is the only other Latin American country that uses the U.S. dollar. Ecuador uses American bills, but also makes its own distinctive coins for quarters, nickels, and dimes. There's a lot of local buzz about how the U.S. dollar benefits the wealthy, but penalizes the poor. In addition, I noticed a bit of evidence that the current President does not approve of the financial ties to the U.S.

We meandered through a few blocks and realized our hotel is located on the rim of a popular hub. People filled the streets, cafés, bars, and any place that housed a T.V. The Ecuador vs. Mexico fútbol semi-finals are tonight. A win would secure a spot in the Cup. A very big deal—the equivalent of the Super Bowl!

On the walk to the restaurant, I rammed my right knee into one of those 18” high cement logs that stand as sentinels along the roadside edge of the sidewalks. I wanted to cry because the pain was intense. During dinner, my eyes teared up from time to time whenever I moved my leg. I asked the Lord to help it not be a hindrance to the rest of the trip. Amy offered me an ice pack, and I had packed a bottle of Biofreeze. The cold felt so good and cut the swelling.

We were fusioned for dinner! We happened upon a fusion restaurant called Yayuna. It is an upscale hippie place with fascinating decor. dinner! We happened upon a fusion restaurant called Yayuna. It is an upscale hippie place with fascinating decor. I imagined the owner saying, “Honey, let’s open a restaurant. We can decorate it with stuff from our garage.” I’ll just list a few of the random things in the little upstairs bay: two blue dresser drawers mounted on the wall with fork and spoon drawer pulls; a bed; a cymbal; drums; a vaca loca piñata; hell-in-a-closet; a black patina shadowbox table with glass top, sectioned with sundry seeds, beans, corn, rice, and Christmas light bulbs. A portion of the wall looked like an adobe cut-away, adorned with barro pots. The place just said, "Marci" all over it! For appetizers, the mesero brought finger bowls of sundry varieties of puffed kernels of dried, salted corn. The menu’s funkiness rivaled the décor. Each section was a fusion of some sort: Lo de nuestro/Lo de afuera. Several of the items were in Quechuan, and some were in Spanish. None were in English. Our mesero spoke Quechuan, but didn’t understand Spanish. The piped-in music was American. How far-reaching are our tentacles? The Beatles, even now, live in the Andes, in one form or another . . . guitar, panpipes, and flutes. Back to the menu, we had little or no idea what to order, nor could we recognize the dishes we had ordered when they arrived! However, everyone seemed pleased. My dinner consisted of a thick lomo with red pepper strips and French fries. Steve and Daniel enjoyed Argentinean steaks, huge avocado halves, cooked choclo (kind of like large hollow hominy), and llapingachos. Llapingachos are the greatest side dish Ecuador offers! They are thick potato pancakes filled with mozzarella cheese, fried on both sides, and topped with peanut sauce. It just doesn’t get any better! When we return home, I’ll look for a recipe for peanut sauce. The llapingachos might be hard to imitate—there are over 200 varieties of potatoes in the Andes and each has a specific use. For example, one variety may make wonderful llapingachos, but disastrous mashed potatoes. One certain type of potato doesn’t break down and is perfect for soups. Another variety is the equivalent of Viagra! The deep purple papa is incredibly pretty when boiled, sliced, and served cold on a plate of lettuce. Will told me about a potato that is so gnarled and convoluted its name translates, “The potato that makes young brides cry.”

We’re still adjusting to the 9,250’ altitude here in Quito, so we all turned in early. About 10:30, the big fútbol game ended and the parties began! Ha! So much for an early night. Ecuador and México had tied, which was good enough to prompt barrio whooping and hollering and drive-by honking sprees until 1:30 AM.

The Eagles Have Landed!

2008-06-02T22:45:00.004-07:00

No solid sleep again last night, but we did rest well. Today, all of us wore the Ecuador or Bust T-shirts Amy had ordered for us. I forgot how to get to the airport from our hotel, so we burned a few extra minutes ambling along various roads. We finally stopped at a convenience store and I ran inside and asked five people for directions before finding someone who spoke English. Keep in mind; we are STILL in the U.S. at this point. Note to self: next time, stay on I-70 East until it turns into the Airport Road—only about 1/4 mile! We parked the van at N-2 in the PPPL.

We left the hotel at seven this morning and checked in at Delta’s desk at 7:45. Our flight leaves at 10:50. Everyone has been on time for everything—no small feat for a group this size. All year we’ve drilled the, “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re left.” People tend to comply when they know you are serious. Mr. Brookshire instilled this into all of us when we were in high school band. “The bus is leaving at 8:00. If you’re in the parking lot at 8:01, you’ll be just in time to wave goodbye to us.”

Our DEN to ATL flight was 15 minutes late leaving Denver. Yikes! We all knew we’d have to scramble through Atlanta’s airport once we landed because we only had 40 minutes before our international flight. Because of the delay, we now only had 25 minutes between flights. We debarked, hopped the train to terminal A, and then ran our guts out to Gate A-25. Once there, we learned it was departing to Cincinnati. Cincinnati can be a pretty destination in itself, but it would be a little tricky riding horses around the Cotopaxi there. We beat it back to the train and checked the Departure Board. Our gate had been changed to Terminal T. Terminal T? Whoever came up with that? The train made these consecutive stops: A, B, C, T. We raced to Gate T-3. Even the teenagers were gasping for breath as we boarded.

On our plane, there was a group of 56 people from Birmingham. They planned to do volunteer work at a camp in Ecuador. It was a lot of fun to talk with a few of them and to hear of their plans. Btw, Steve is really flying well. He hasn’t taken one single-dingle little white pill! I’m looking forward to being in Ecuador with him.

What a surprise! When we debarked in Quito, huge clay vases—about 3 feet tall and 2 feet wide—decked the airport lobby. Perhaps four or five dozen long stemmed roses filled each. This was our first evidence that Ecuador truly is the world’s leading exporter of roses.

Okay, I kind of am freaking out because the guy at customs took our immigration papers. All of them! When I tried to tell him, in Spanish, that we would need them to exit the country, he told me not to worry and showed me a stack of immigration papers about four inches tall that he had collected from everyone that evening. He said we wouldn’t need them. I hope he was really the immigration officer and not a computer tech. Our Birmingham friends forfeited their immigration papers too, so maybe it’s okay. It was such a grievous, costly thing last year when someone stole Amber’s passport and immigration papers in Cuzco and we had to visit the U.S. Embassy and Immigration Office in Lima for replacements. Well, I’m deciding to trust the Umpire for peace about this one.

Once through customs, we spotted an energetic girl holding a board with my name on it. We followed Alejandra to the minibus waiting for us. The driver, Juan Pablo, helped us load our bags. Btw, I’m proud of everyone for not bringing the kitchen sink. We each toted a small piece of checked luggage and a daypack. If Steve and I were traveling alone, we likely wouldn’t use a tour company. However, with so many of us on this trip, it’s nice not to deal with transportation arrangements and logistics. We are using Latin Frontiers. Miami is the U.S. base, with Ecuador headquarters in Quito. So far, so good. Juan Pablo is an extremely cautious driver and delivered us to Fuente de piedra in no time. Alejandra is knowledgeable, competent, and possesses a great sense of humor. All of us like her.

Oh, great! As we unloaded at our hotel and there was a hooker on the corner. She had long, big hair, thick mascara, a plunged neckline, and miniskirt. She’s not pretty and she looked very sad. If I’d have had the luxury of being by myself, I may have tried to visit with her. However, what would I have said? What could have bridged our worlds?

Denver Departure

2008-06-01T21:27:00.009-07:00

Linda sent her cell with us, already programmed for international use--$2.49/minute. We will use it to connect with Marci, when there is no fifteen-cent-per-minute calling booth available.

We’re in our Denver hotel. I’m grateful to be at this stage of the trip. The pre-trip research and planning, plus fundraising with the kids consumed a lot of time and, okay, I'll admit it, ENERGY. And, now I’m entertaining an unfamiliar, unwelcome guest: stress. I’ve asked the Lord to calm me, but He must be delighting to surprise me by answering “not yet.” Last night I read in Colossians 3:15 (I think), “Let the peace of Christ umpire in your heart. . .” I want to be that player who trusts the umpire’s calls. “Paz en la tierra; paz en mi corazón.”

Each of the twelve people on this trip is amazing. I’m so eager to explore Ecuador with them! Ecuador will remain unchanged, but I hope we will forever be different.

One of my life strategies is to hold little or no expectations. The result is that I’m generally never disappointed and am usually delightfully surprised. That works for me because I don’t tolerate disappointment well, but I do love most surprises. Therefore, ten days from now it will be fun to reflect on our trip and remember the surprises. I hope Latin Frontiers is as reliable and enjoyable as Peter sounds on the phone and as the references indicate. Are those expectations?

Southbound traffic

2008-05-11T22:05:00.001-07:00

There will likely come a season when I will not delight in watching the days sail past. However, now my heart races, I trap squeals, and nurture hefty daydreams. I'm in a state of otherliness. "Excuse me, were you saying something?"

Three weeks from now we will be planted in Ecuador! I totally love, love, love our itinerary and can hardly wait. White water rafting, gondola rides to the top of a volcano, splitting the hemispheres with a step, hiking around and through waterfalls, horseback riding around the rim of a volcano, ziplining in a cloud forest, soaking in thermals, salsa lessons, mingling with the locals, and doing volunteer work in an orphanage.

We have added Leah and Marci in the last week. Wahoo! A dozen venturers in all, heavy on the estrogen... The guys will bring balance.

Perhaps the next entry will be scribbled from a corner cabina....

Ciao--no one says adios in Ecuador....they grasp the finality of it.

Scared to Pieces!

2007-12-11T20:21:00.000-07:00

"Suddenly, God's angel stood among them and God's glory blazed around them. They were terrified." (Luke 2:9, The Message)

Yeah, I'm gonna have to say they were definitely justified in their terror. If the Lord's glory alone affected them like this, no wonder the Bible says no one can see God and live. In a small way, it reminds me of that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Although God’s glory may evoke fear, His presence affords peace.

Sheep in the Hood!

2007-12-10T20:28:00.000-07:00

"There were sheepherders camping in the neighborhood. They had set night watches over their sheep." (Luke 2:8, The Message)

Were sheepherders respected? Loathed? Ignored? At the very least, this particular group was privileged to be forever changed.

I love that Jesus Christ is The Good Shepherd, The Great Shepherd, The Chief Shepherd, and the Sacrificial Lamb.

It's a Boy!

2007-12-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

"And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn." (Luke 2:7, KJV)

Jake's solo this morning caused me to tear up. The lyrics follow, and I'm hard-pressed to add anything. Thanks, Jake; thanks, Mark.

Mary, Did You Know? by Mark Lowry

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will one day walk on water?

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?

Did you know,
that your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered,
will soon deliver you.

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will calm a storm with his hand?

Did you know,
that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?
When you kiss your little baby,
you've kissed the face of God.

Oh, Mary did you know . . .

The blind will see
The deaf will hear
The dead will live again.
The lame will leap
The dumb will speak
The praises of The Lamb.

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy is Lord of all creation?

Mary, did you know
that your baby boy will one day rule the nations?

Did you know,
that your baby boy is heaven's perfect lamb?

This sleeping child you're holding, is the great I AM.

Honey, it's time!

2007-12-08T23:02:00.000-07:00

While they were in Bethlehem, the time came for Mary to have the baby." (Luke 2:6, New Century Version)

Steve frequently says that if a mare is successful in getting a colt on the ground, she's really done something. I would say the same for Mary, particularly considering all the convoluted issues.

Recently, I read that Jewish midwives routinely rubbed salt all over the skin of newborns in order to prevent infection. Jesus calls His followers the "salt of the earth." I wouldn’t be surprised if that expression somehow relates to the infection of sin.

What love?

2007-12-07T21:22:00.000-07:00

"He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child." (Luke 2:5, NIV)

Joseph was one amazing guy. He trusted God. He trusted Mary. I can only imagine the taunting he endured. It can be miserable to know people think you are a fool. My initial response is to defend myself. Yet Joseph allowed God to be his refuge. Was he afraid? To travel such a great distance with his pregnant fiancé was a daunting task. I love his ability to think on his feet. I love his courage. He loved Mary a great deal. His faithfulness inspires me and breathes freshness into the season.

Why the Unchosen Coulds?

2007-12-06T19:32:00.000-07:00

"So Joseph had to leave Nazareth in Galilee and go to Bethlehem in Judea. Long ago Bethlehem had been King David's hometwon, and Joseph went there because he was from David's family." (Luke 2:4, Contemporary English Version)

Small aside: I don't believe it ever registered with me that Joseph and Mary were both descendants of King David. Thanks, Aimee.

The mountain men would have said Joseph was a man "you could ride the river with." Legally, he could have stoned Mary for being pregnant. He didn't. Culturally, he could have divorced her. He didn't. Spiritually, he could have disobeyed God. He didn't. Personally, he could have resisted the command to return to the land of his heritage. He didn't. He could have cowarded-out and no one would have blamed him.

The Son of God could not have adopted a nobler father.

What Price Obedience?

2007-12-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

“Everyone had to travel to his own ancestral hometown to be accounted for.” (Luke 2:3, The Message)

Drop everything, put your own interests aside, count the cost, and obey. The upside, likely, was that many enjoyed happy reunions along the journey and at the destination. Villains are not entirely evil. Plus, observant children benefited from opportunities to watch modeled obedience.

It's relatively painless to "obey right away" when it's easy and I have no major objections. Most of me generally wants to obey, but there's still the hidden part that is standing up on the inside.

Where Are They?

2007-12-04T22:12:00.000-07:00

"This was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria." (Luke 2:2, RSV)

I don't like change. It's an unwelcome visitor. When the census began, there were sundry reasons to protest this drastic change, yet where are the gripers? Scripture doesn’t mention any. I'd have been right in there yelling, This is stupid! Whose idea was this anyway? Things were better before....but there’s no hint of their discontent. What was the source of their silence, or more accurately, their peace? That's where my heart longs to live--

What? It's NOT About Me?

2007-12-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled.” (Luke 2:1, RSV)

Time is important, but timing trumps. I’m not a huge fan of chance, coincidence, or cosmic randomness. I believe God created everything, is actively sustaining it, and that He is engaged with His creation. So, when He set everything in motion, He appointed a specific time for the Messiah to arrive on the scene in order to offer redemption to humankind.

Caesar Augustus may have been an independent thinker, but his decision to take a census was not entirely arbitrary. God ordained the timing.

While trying to put myself into those citizens’ places, I admit I likely would have complained and whined about being forced to make the trip to our hometown just to feed the inflated ego of an already piggish enemy ruler. For most, the trip was costly, time-consuming, and inconvenient. Isn’t that true of many daily experiences?

Even though the people may have thought it was all about them, as I feel while struggling with inconveniences, disappointments, and absurd demands, it wasn’t. I, and perhaps they, drone, Why is this happening to me? I don't deserve this. It’s not fair. Yet they were part of a higher plan, a design that had nothing, yet ultimately everything to do with them. They were the background scenery, not the focal points. It was necessary for God to call all peoples to their homeland in order to bring Mary and Joseph on the scene at the proper time. And, of course, the two of them were just background scenery as well. The Baby King was and is the focal point.

The Way the Stick Floats!

2007-11-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

I'm so excited! Friday night while we were at some friends' house, I discovered the title for my speech: The Way the Stick Floats. They had just purchased a couple of antique finished statues of mountain men. The artist had carved the inscription on one of the mountain men. I'd never heard the saying before so when we got home, I googled it. Trappers used to tie a stick on their beaver traps. If a beaver swam off with the trap, the trapper knew where it was because of the floating stick. The phrase identifies someone who knows what's up, what's what. It's the perfect title and I'm over the top!

Living Well

2007-10-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

Cathie went Home this past week. I began missing her as soon as she received the diagnosis. A week before her home-going, she told me how grateful she was for the cancer because it thrust her into the most intimate relationship she’s ever had with Jesus.

Her service couldn't have been more beautiful. It reflected her life and countenance. Aimee and Marci keep a journal of great wedding ideas; I'm beginning a log of great funerals. So far, Cathie's is my only entry. I loved her earthy casket. It appeared to be cedar, fastened with latches like the leaves on our dining room table. I can't think of anyone who loved flowers more than Cathie, yet the log church lacked them. Another good thing. A few trailing vines and roses adorned her casket, but that was it, except for The Hat. Cathie's entire service was out of the box and the model I'd like to use. She designed it all. She must have felt the same way about hearses and limos as I. Her casket was placed in the back of a Suburban and all the family drove their real life cars. The program was a real 8-page booklet and not those insipid quarter sheets the mortuaries are pleased to push. The front is a picture of a radiant Cathie watering flowers. Inside are humble samples of her beautiful writing, and rich Bible verses. As far as I know, she never finished her life story for the eBook. However, it would be cool if she had recorded enough to be of use to at least one seeker. She wrote her own eulogy. I've always despised the reading of those things as they appear in the newspapers. Cathie's fingerprints were all over the eulogy Billy read. When she was two, she ran out daily to meet her dad as he rode in from cowboying. He'd swing her up onto the saddle and let her look inside his saddlebags. He brought her fresh wildflowers every time he rode in the mountains. She loved all of them, but was especially partial to blue flowers. Once Gene learned that, he gathered only blue bouquets. When he arrived home at the end of the day, he'd dismount, scoop up Cathie, and tip his cowboy hat for her to see that it was filled with blue flowers. He placed The Hat of blue flowers on her casket--a man of substance and class.

I’m listening to her tenacity, metal-tested by God’s anvil. She had a history of sacrifice. Her battle scars, formerly prominent, are now kisses of grace. A. W. Tozer once said, “God will never use a man greatly until He has wounded that man deeply.” Cathie’s wounds were deep. Perhaps the most profound, in my opinion, occurred when Dana was killed in the same car wreck that left Laree deaf in one ear and blind in one eye. When Cathie recuperated enough to leave the hospital, she sought the driver who had been high when he ran the stoplight that rainy night. Cathie forgave him. She forgave him! Over the course of several weeks, she shared the grace, love, and forgiveness of Christ with law officers, hospital and rehab staff, the driver and his family, and top/bottom/middle brass at the Air Force Academy. Several were drawn to the irresistible love of Jesus.

Cathie lived well and honored God. Now she's sauntering through eternity with Dana, hand in hand, face to face with Jesus, continuing to live well.

Lily-livered

2007-09-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

Where in the world did that word originate? An old expression, I’m sure, but it describes a timeless condition. I'm currently lily-livered. Yep, a bowl of grape Jell-O. Flan, if you will. Yesterday, Debbie asked me to be the guest speaker at a ladies' gathering in mid-October or early November. Two months after Dad died, Christy asked me to speak at a Christmas Tea. I really don't understand either request. I'm not a speaker, nor do I aspire to become one. To envision myself on a platform in front of an audience is beyond my reality. True, every week I blab nearly nonstop to teens on a daily basis. However, when talking to adult peers, close friends and family excluded, I am barely able to spout a complete sentence. My words trip over their own shoelaces and my thoughts are a bowl of milk-drenched Froot Loops. I become monosyllabic and sound as though I never completed third grade.

Is this the way Moses felt when God asked him to step up to the plate? I don’t want to speak. I can’t speak. I don’t know how to speak. They won’t listen. I won’t make a difference. And, besides, I have nothing to say. Why can’t the Aarons of the world speak for us? My real strength lies in listening. My experience is that people want and need someone to listen to them. I am that one. I can listen. I know how to listen. I’m good at listening. I want to listen. Listening makes people feel loved. I am one of the better listeners I know, yet no one ever invites me to be the guest listener at ladies’ gatherings.

To raise the stakes, my friends bring God onboard. Debbie and Christy both post scripted their requests with, “Please pray about being the guest speaker.” When someone asks you to pray about something to which you are initially opposed, and you do pray, it is nearly a certainty that the Lord will flip you 180 degrees and you will find yourself doing the very thing you never wanted to do. It seems to be one of those anomalies of life.

The Apostle Paul spoke well when he recognized that Christ’s grace is sufficient; His power is made perfect in our weakness. Paul said, “I will all the more gladly boast of my weaknesses, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

As I’ve been praying, I sense the Lord desires me to step up to the plate, to trust Him to fill my mind with organized, relevant thoughts as I study and prepare, and to speak the words that at least one listener needs to hear in order to bring glory to Him. His grace is certainly sufficient. His strength is more than adequate. His wisdom is incomprehensible. I am a precarious tiny dot surrendered in obedience. I will prepare as much as possible, and trust Him. Hmm . . . perhaps it’s desirable to be a lily-livered bowl of grape Jell-O.

Likin' this thought

2007-09-17T16:19:00.000-07:00

"Don't allow those who have a small concept of God influence you." --Unknown

Living Out Loud

2007-09-14T17:16:00.000-07:00

Aimee recommended I read Under the Overpass by Michael Yankoski. Although I finished the book in one setting, the book is not finished with me. It lodges in that rare category, Life-Changing. Yankoski pulled back the sleeping bags to reveal street people as I've never known or imagined them. Ouch. Whenever I’ve seen card-carrying street people, my impulse has always been to shout, "Get a job!" I rarely allow myself to consider the circumstances that thrust them into their current condition. Just a harsh, “This is America, for crying out loud. Clean yourself up and go interview.”

A couple of years ago, Yankoski temporarily joined the ranks of America’s 3.1 million homeless. He and his friend, Sam, invested about six months living on the streets. This book chronicles their experiences in half a dozen American cities. Theirs was a lifestyle by choice with a predetermined end. Mike’s journey began as he struggled with the paradox of Christians speaking about their faith, yet often living as though they had none. He cites Jesus’ exhortation to feed and clothe the hungry and naked. While on the streets, less than half a dozen people offered tangible help to Sam and him. Vocal Christians who recognized their obvious needs sometimes sympathized, and then offered an easy, costless, “I’ll pray for you” as they and their comfort walked away.

Never did Mike and Sam endorse the addictions that have driven many of America’s homeless to the streets. However, they demonstrated sincere care and concern for addicts. Without fail, he and Sam used their surplus panhandling income to buy food to share with their street friends. Several times people allowed them into their sphere, physically and emotionally. The two shared honest friendship as well as empathy and hope. Mike and Sam’s lives evidenced the most dramatic, permanent changes. That’s what I want for myself too.

How do I get there? A few years ago when Marci and I returned from Bolivia, our affluence crippled us for a long time. I thought and had hoped it would be permanent. We couldn’t bear to look in the pantry. We didn’t want to go to the grocery store. The thought of buying and receiving Christmas gifts appalled us. Just opening our closets punched us in the gut. Our Bolivian friends had nothing, yet they had everything. We already had too much and hungered for more. How does one convert nothingness into somethingness?

I won’t say I now have a burning desire to quit my job and live by the river, but I am challenging myself to live out loud. A smile is a portable thing to share. Why have I always averted my eyes to avoid even perfunctory contact with the homeless? How shall I now live in their presence? I’ve never been hungry enough to eat questionable discards. I shower daily. I can afford soap, deodorant, and toothpaste. My home isn’t made of cardboard. I’m not at the mercy of a provider. Yet, that statement isn’t entirely true. All the provisions I enjoy have come from God’s generous hand, directly or indirectly. He has enabled our family to earn a decent living. I have and the homeless have not. Does that fact embarrass me? Does the realization increase my responsibility to be a point person for them?

Rarely do I have opportunity to mingle with street people, but somehow I want to change that, I think. I really think I do. If I plan better, I could carve time to visit with those I see under park tables and trees. Cody and Michaela pioneered the sack lunch distribution. Since they’re no longer here, I can grab hold of the torch and stuff brown bags. I could also volunteer more often in soup kitchens. Yankoski says outsiders provide a positive outlook that is lacking among those who are wounded by negativism and despair. A fresh influx of volunteers is also a healing balm to those who daily man shelters and soup kitchens.

Yankoski insists, and I agree, that street people learn to have low self-esteem because of their condition. They know they smell. They know their clothes are ratty. They know they look like haggard dregs. I could help a little in this department too. It would be easy to keep supplies in the car to hand out for divine appointments. Here’s my initial Care Package Inventory: eye contact, smile, engaging conversation, time, authenticity, gum, lotion, soap, shampoo, deodorant, washcloth, toothbrush, toothpaste, granola bars, and packets of nuts, jerky, and dried fruit, bottled water, McDonald’s gift certificates, gloves, stocking caps, socks, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and blankets.

I want to be purposeful. For a long time, I searched for ways to define myself. Pastor Goodman used to say, “A man wrapped up in himself makes a small and miserable package.” True. Living beyond myself is one more stick of kindling for the fires that refine, and I’ll gladly swap defining for refining any day. It’s easy to live for the temporal. I want to nurture a mindset in which the eternal always trumps. After all, Jesus lived under the overpass.

Little Black Sambo

2007-08-21T20:41:00.000-07:00

My To Do List is excessively long, so instead of tackling it, I'm doing right brain aerobics. Aimee sent my Facebook account two Free Gifts: one is a very thoughtful Candy Corn Double Striped Highway Cone which will come in super handy as I'm driving through Halloween construction in a couple of months, and the other is a keyboard because she knows I'm still plugging away at chord progressions. If she were any kind of friend she'd create mnemonics for all of them. While trying to select a new gift to send Aim, I noticed the tallest stack of buttered pancakes I've seen all day. For some reason it reminded me of one of my favorite childhood books, Little Black Sambo. I doubt that book is even in print these days. Likely, someone has labeled it racist. Our family's copy was a thin, well-worn paperback. Mom was always the parent who read stories to us and I loved it. She changed her voice for each character. Whenever she'd slip up, we'd say, "That's not what the Little Red Hen sounded like!" and she'd change accordingly. Dad was the story teller. I wish he would have recorded his stories over the years. He could create them at will. The grandkids loved his Chester and Sarah stories--trolls and a bridge and cousins with rhyming names. While Mom read gobs of books and several stories to us, especially the Brothers Grimm, I remember Dad reading three books in particular. I haven't a clue why Mom didn't read those three. Maybe Dad's voice was a better fit. Or perhaps it was just his passion. Mom just couldn’t read Little Black Sambo with as much pathos as Dad. When Little Black Sambo's mom, Black Mumbo, sewed him the fine new clothes, and his dad, Black Jumbo, bought him the little purple shoes Dad made them sound the grandest possessions a person could own. I wanted Mom to make me a little pair of blue trousers and a red coat. She never did, but I still managed to have a successful, happy childhood. Basically. When Dad read, I'd always get mad when those four tigers, one at a time, tormented Little Black Sambo to the point of forcing him to fork over his cute little clothes. They weren’t just plain old every day tigers one encounters under the bed or in a dark alley, but big, fierce Indian tigers who talked and threatened to gobble innocent little kids--the kind found on every elementary school playground at recess time when the teacher is nowhere in sight. Even though I always knew how the story would end, I'd still shiver when the tigers began fighting over their new blue trousers, red shirt, green umbrella and purple shoes. (My cerebral cobwebs might have skewed the colors.) My favorite part of the book was when the tigers chased themselves round and round the tree until they turned into a giant puddle of butter. Black Jumbo came along and scooped the tiger butter into a pail and carted it home. Black Mumbo did the only sensible thing a mother could do; she made pancakes. The little family topped the flapjacks with the fresh jungle butter and Little Black Sambo ate the amount of a Pancake Lover's Dream: 169 pancakes.

Louis L'Amour

2007-08-17T21:09:00.000-07:00

This blog is wearing NBs because of my good friend, Matt. He's my computer Go To and has recently been my burly cheerleader for setting up this blog site. This morning I read Casey's blog from Argentina. Wow! It inspired me to begin blogging and jogging. Today I blog, tomorrow I jog. Gracias, Casey! Mark groaned when I told him I intend to become a bloggin' mama. He hates blogs, but he loves to read westerns. When he sees the title of this one, it'll suck him in. Since this is my first entry, I'll pause just now and go rustle up some grub for the young 'uns. Keep your powder dry.