Happiness is...

...a Saturday and a book.

Today's run...

...happened.

That's about all that can be said about my 1.5 mile jog, at no particular pace, this evening. It happened. Still, that's more than can be said of most of my runs this year. Despite a tight schedule on a muggy evening, despite inhaling a bit of gravel, despite a few guys that probably weren't creepy (but I'm awfully creepable), today's run happened.

And if I boast*...er...blog about it, there's a greater chance that it will keep happening.

*Please disregard yesterday's post about all the good things I accomplish being like filthy rags or clanging gongs or whatever.

Odds and Ends

This morning I woke up feeling disappointed. Perhaps I should say that I woke up feeling like a disappointment, as the only thing I was disappointed in was myself. Some days are like that - that cloud, that vague sense that I'm not quite ok, that there's something I ought to be doing better or more or differently.

Underneath it all, of course, is the fear that I've disappointed God somehow. The "ought to's" pile up and point the finger. Thank goodness for the Gospel! I grasped for it this morning, while still lying in bed condemning myself for not getting up yet: His love for me has never depended on my good behavior. I am not defined by my unmet ought to's.

And so I had a pretty good day, with a list of small accomplishments. I made productive choices at work. I finally ran a mile after too many months of sporadic exercise. I ate lots of vegetables. I got a library card. I cheered for my friends' softball team. I wrote a long-overdue e-mail to a heart-friend.

Thank goodness once again for the Gospel, which shows up to remind me that I'm nothing on my own. It reveals the castle I thought I was building to be nothing more than a dollhouse, clumsy and crude at best. And that's ok. If I find my worth in what I do, I'll always let myself down eventually. I can't accomplish a thing without His grace. End-of-the-day self-satisfaction leads only to early-morning self-disappointment.

Thank goodness for the Gospel. Thank goodness for my Jesus.

Cultural Whiplash

This time it's a latrine that reminds me why I love my life.

Not that I've been in desperate need of reminding. These past few weeks - as I've hung out with kids and watched them get excited about God and His purposes, as I've coached my students in leadership, as I've lived and laughed with my beloved Mexican friends, as I've swam in sea and cenote, as I've sweated and swatted mosquitoes, as I've collapsed late at night in my low-swinging hamaca, as I've relished yummy Yucatecan delicacies like panuchos or machacados - I've rediscovered the smile I'd lost this spring in the chaos of preparation and the burden of a grace-resisting heart. But my grin grows wider as I pick my way through the jungle of a backyard behind my new Mayan mama's cocina.

A fire pit here, a tricycle-cart there, a thatched building providing extra cooking space, a covey of women in their white embroidered dresses gossiping in Mayan while watching the pot of beans, and finally a rickety structure in the back corner, bamboo poles and tree branches held together by scraps of what-have-you, dried palm leaves for a roof, and a tattered curtain reminiscent of the sackcloth that Old Testament characters are so fond of donning. I try not to think about where this remnant of drapery has been as I pull it aside to enter. Inside is a rotting wooden floor keeping a makeshift seat suspended over what must be an old well. The smell and the flies make its new use all too clear.

Kenyans call this kind of toilet a "long drop," I recall as I precariously take care of business. No doubt if I fell through the gaping hole I'd wish the drop were longer - anything to delay the inevitable unsavory plunge. "That," I tell my morbid imagination, "would be a terrible way to die." There's certainly no cause to linger in a place like this - and yet, as I make my way back to the raucous cocina where our family dinner awaits, the only thought I have is how much I love my life.

My days in the tiny village of Teabo (which sounds to me like an expression of affection from a Spanish speaker with a cold) fly by in a blur of greenery and afternoon showers and two-tiered translation - and before long I'm saying good-bye to new friends - friends whose first language is not Spanish but Mayan, friends who are just barely scraping out a living and yet send me off with gifts, friends who hardly know me but cry to see me go.

The four-hour van ride to the Cancun airport is not long enough to transition smoothly. I find myself in line with the guy who is paying to check a fifth suitcase, the woman who is already drunk, her companion who loudly belittles her. I buy a half pint of milk for three times the standard price of a liter and await my flight in a terminal with a Bubba Gump Shrimp and a Margaritaville, surrounded by tourists who've experienced a Mexico as authentic as Taco Bell. They sport tans they've worked hard for, lying on sand imported from fishing villages elsewhere in the peninsula - I watched the 'dozers tear up the coastline just days before. They've stayed in resorts that are driving up the cost of living for the people who grew up here, resorts kept running by people who've left farm and family to seek their fortune in tourism. The women wear ridiculous hats and sundresses just like ones I've seen in souvenir shops in Thailand and Turkey and India and Florida, dresses most likely imported from Indonesia.

I drink every last drop of my thirty-peso milk and remind myself how selfish I've been and how much mercy I've been extended. I, too, have sought my own comfort and pleasure, carelessly disregarding the affect of my actions on others. It was my self-centered living, after all, that crucified Christ. Still, I wish I were back in Teabo (or "Te Quiero Buchisibo," as I like to call it), swinging in my hammock in my spider-infested house, rushing to fill the tank when there's running water, trekking across the backyard to the latrine.

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.