Today's Butt-kicker

Shortly after making amends with someone I'd cut down with my razor wit:

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart
be acceptable in your sight,
O LORD, my rock and my redeemer."
- Psalm 19:14

Can't have acceptable words without the meditations of a pure heart. I'm grateful for the stability of my Rock and his faithfulness to redeem me and my relationships from the messes my impatience, my arrogance, and my thoughtlessness make.

Today's Accomplishments

• Drove around Merida in a persnickety van and got thoroughly lost - several times - but found my way without phoning a friend.

• After six days without any caffeine, downed a French press in the morning, a frappe-plus-two-shots-topped-with-whipped-cream-and-cajeta (my guilty pleasure, ordered in flawless Spanish and prepared by a barista who greeted me by name) in the afternoon. (CouldthisbewhyI'mstillawakeandblogging?)

• Finished I Chronicles and rejoiced with King David in seeing the hearts of those I lead devoted to God. (It's been nice reconnecting with David after II Samuel killed him off.)

• Spoke lots of Spanish.

• Drove someone to the emergency room while being given directions in Spanish. (He's fine.)
  

• Made tea out of fresh chamomile - so fragrant - necessary, after all that caffeine.
  

• Shared the tea.
  

• Prayed specific prayers for people - I'm sheepish about how uncommon that is.

• Conveniently forgot to make that phone call I keep putting off.

• Said good-bye to a dear old friend that I see every couple of years or so.

• Had amazing conversations with girls I love - most of them over coffee.
  

• Saw a baby gecko.

• Delighted in my calling.
  

• Investigated this story about my beloved Turkey - note the difference in how it's spun. (This piece may tell it like it is, but what a cheesy/peynirli/con queso title for a column!)
  

• Divulged.

• Named said persnickety van "Guacki Junior" (after Guacki, a very large avocado that became our team's mascot but slyly snuck off to Chetumal in someone's backpack this morning).

• Gave hammock advice.

• Gave lentil soup advice.

• Gave relationship advice.

• Gave personal hygiene advice.

• Gave migraine advice.

• Gave pursuing-the-Lord advice.

• Acquired 20+ new mosquito bites, but scratched a tad bit less.

• Heard God speak - never gets old.

• Sang an old song that I haven't sung in years.

• Made a list of the day's accomplishments and posted it online.

Say "Yes" to Cenotes

The hacienda was abandoned ages ago, when plastic rope made the sprawling hemp plantations obsolete, but the rusted iron tracks criss-crossing the acres still remain. Now the wooden, horse-drawn carts tote people instead of the smelly plants, creaking over the tracks through a jungle of tangled-up trees and the occasional remnant of spiky hemp.

Most of the carts are laden with Mexican families out for a Saturday dip, but we occupy four of them, a passel of gringos swatting horse flies. My horse is particularly lazy and prone to wander off the track whenever given an opportunity - taking after his driver, who is whiny and ready to be home for the day. Occasionally we meet cartloads of people heading back from our destination, and since there are more of us, they all unload and lift their carts off the track for us to trot by. When we do meet a group that matches our size, some friendly banter gets tossed back and forth by the drivers - "We've got more!" "Well, we could beat you!" Eventually we get out and let them pass.

I keep my eyes peeled for a regional tree - I've forgotten its name - that has the mystical property of causing dreadful welts on the skin of anyone who crosses its shadow. There is, of course, a scientific explanation - potent black sap that drips from the leaves - but legend has it that centuries ago, Mayans who had been left to die for refusing to convert were tied to this particular tree - and cursed it. The antidote to the black sap is the bark of another tree that always grows nearby. I love my wise Creator, always providing a remedy for the curse.

Finally we arrive at the first cenote. The whole peninsula is teeming with underground rivers, and countless openings and caves that used to invite worship (and, some say, human sacrifice) now beckon us: "Refréscate!"

The water is cool and fresh and impossibly clean, redefining "deep blue." Openings in the roof of the cave let light filter down, and tree roots dangle just above the surface of the water, tempting a climb. We float on our backs, admiring the view. We hurl ourselves from the platform ten feet up.

Eventually they call us out and it's on to the next one - this one accessible by a slippery, rickety ladder down a narrow hole. I'm amazed there's no liability release form to sign. This cenote has an island in the middle but no platform to jump off of - we improvise, balancing on the railing of the balcony before taking the plunge.

It's dusk by the time we leave, and before long the fireflies make their appearance - luciernago in Spanish, but the Mayan is prettier and much easier to pronounce: cocay. We creak and rattle our way home. I imagine the Mayan workers when the hacienda was in its prime, urging the horses on, anxious to be with their families. My "family", a hodgepodge of gringos and Mexicans, heads back to our home away from home, exhausted and hungry, but with a story to tell.

Word of the Day

tramposo: Spanish for "cheater"

I beat some Mexican kids at Uno last night because I knew that word. File it away for future reference. You never know when it may come in handy.

Happiness is...

...knowing that you are exactly where you are supposed to be, and that it's more fulfilling than anything else could possibly be.

I am, and it is.

Su Casa Es Mi Casa

Coming to Mexico - the Yucatan in particular - is like visiting the home of my childhood best friend. It wasn't quite home, but it was still home. They weren't quite my family, but they were still family. Besides, "Aunt Anne" made the best chocolate chip cookies, and there were always lots of craft supplies and fewer meddling older siblings. When I step off the plane in the Cancun airport it's like walking through the back door at Aunt Anne's old house - all the sights and sounds and smells are so familiar that I want to hug the immigration officer.

And here I am in Merida, which I've always preferred to other cities in Mexico even though I've spent less time here. What's not to love? Tiny taquerias and tortillerias with names like "Gift of God" or "The Divine Child" sprinkle the city with that authentic goodness that's so hard to find anywhere else. Jokes are twice as funny when told in Spanish. Avocados are cheap, and fresh, and good, and limes grow on the tree in our courtyard. Don Jerman, the sweet, shriveled elderly man who's staying at our hotel, greets me with a kiss on the cheek and sends his daughter in search of his amiguita if I neglect to say hello. Hermana Isabel stands eye-level with my belly button and bustles about cooking vast quantities of deliciousness.

Then there are the sprawling colonial haciendas - beautiful reminders of an ugly past. There are the paintings of Mayans being burned alive for refusing to convert to Catholicism. I cannot forget the depths of our depravity, the injustices we're capable of committing. I cannot forget the One who knocks, the One who serves, the One who says "Come to Me, and I will give you rest!"

It's no wonder most Yucatecans sleep in hammocks - I do the same, smugly aware of my cultural adaptability - because most days the heat of the sun seems as oppressive as the conquistadores. But even the sun takes a siesta occasionally. On those afternoons, a sudden, ferocious downpour arrives without warning and stops almost as soon as it's begun, like a mother swooping in with a washcloth to scrub the sweat and dust off a squirmy little boy's face, even though it will be dirty again in no time. Merida, too, will be cool and clean only for a moment, but it remains dimply and endearing even in its sweat and mischief.