beautiful contradiction.

It has been a crazy month. I think that a lot of people have recently gone through a time like this, but it reminds me of when I was a kid and we would be driving through the mountains in BC. Me and my sisters used to play little car games all the time, and one of our games was that whenever we got to a tunnel, we had to hold our breath until we got through to the other side. Sometimes the tunnels were short, they even had gaps where the sunlight shone in every once in a while. But sometimes we would get to a tunnel that seemed to last forever. The sunlight disappeared. And we couldn’t see the end. We just sat there holding our breath.

Sometimes when hard things happen, isn’t that how we feel? We don’t know how to deal with things, we don’t know how to process, because so often it just doesn’t make sense. Everything familiar disappears, and suddenly we have questions. We have doubts. Even though we know that God has brought us through times like this before, somehow we doubt that he’ll bring us through this one. We wonder if it will ever end, and if we’ll ever really be okay on the other side of it. And as it goes on longer and longer, it feels like we can’t breathe.

I don’t know why bad things happen. I really don’t understand. And I’ve definitely gone through my days of asking God why, sometimes almost demanding an explanation. Because how can I trust a God who does all of these things that I don’t understand and won’t even tell me why… right?

Then I stop and think. How small God would be if he was limited to my understanding.

Suddenly there’s this beautiful contradiction. I don’t trust God because I understand; in fact, I trust God because I don’t understand. I can’t make sense of all these things, but I don’t need to, because He is so much bigger than anything I am capable of grasping. And I don’t find that daunting. I find it reassuring. Isn’t it amazing that God has everything in his hands? Doesn’t it bring peace to know that even when we don’t have answers, we can rest in the fact that he does?

The hard times pass, the light comes, we make it through, we breathe again. Just like when I was a kid. And maybe we’ll look back and talk about how long those tunnels were or how dark it was inside. Maybe we’ll hit a few more tunnels on the way. But once we reach the destination, somehow we finally understand why.

And somehow we see that it was all worth it.

the leader.

Every once in a while I just feel restless. Leading up to this summer, I felt that inside…like I just needed to get out, do something different, have something new. So I a little bit spontaneously made the decision to move to BC for the summer, and here I am. After driving for hours through my beloved prairies, then driving for hours through the mountains that were breathtaking…missing exits, taking detours…I finally made it here. And I am loving it.

Through a random connection of my grandpa’s, I got a job on a tree farm. I’ve never done work that’s anything like this before. I don’t know anything about equipment or about trees…ha. But these people decided to give me a chance. I work outside all day long, get lots of sun, and it’s beautiful. We meet up in the morning, but often get sent out to do our own jobs, and I usually end up by myself all day long. Just me and rows and rows of trees.

I didn’t think that I liked being alone all day. But it’s beginning to turn into just what I needed. When I’m all by myself, I sing. I think. I talk to God. And as I’ve learned more and more about trees – how they grow best, what they need, how to shear, how to prune…God has made so clear to me some truth that I needed to see. What had possibly been considered a cliche analogy of the human spirit became so real to me as I worked those trees with my own hands.

Part of my job was pruning. I go through the tree and find all the dead branches…all the branches that aren’t giving life and aren’t giving fruit, and I cut them off. I thin out the whole tree, strip it down, taking away all of the excess layers so that it can breathe. Then the last thing. When they were teaching me about pruning, they kept on saying, “You have to find the leader.” The leader is what they call the branch in the very center of the tree that should grow to be the biggest, strongest, and highest…the core. But sometimes other branches grow up to compete with the leader. Branches from the outside start growing inwards, trying to be the center. Outside branches grow taller than the leader. Sometimes a few branches end up growing together to become thicker than the leader. What do I do with all of those branches? I cut them off. Any branch that’s competing with the leader, the center of the tree… I cut it off. So in many of those trees, the leader doesn’t start out being the biggest, the strongest, or the highest. But as I prune back the excess, the unhealthy, all the other branches that are hindering…it becomes the biggest and strongest and highest. It becomes the obvious center of the tree. Rather than branches growing inwards and pointing all different directions, the whole tree begins to grow from the inside out. Everything comes from the leader.

As I work with these trees all day long, this simple job… God is showing me why I felt restless. And I’m learning that pruning is how I am going to grow too.

He is like a tree planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. Whatever he does prospers… Psalm 1.3

una vislumbre.

A veces me siento como si estuviera durmiendo. Siento que todos los recuerdos de Guatemala son parte de un sueño borroso, y se siente muy surreal pensar en que solo hace seis meses, eso fue mi vida. Seis meses que pasaron volando, pero a la vez pasaron goteando, poco a poco. Es tan diferente aquí. Y aunque tuve que acostumbrarme otra vez a la vida de Canadá, ni un día pasa que yo no me imagino levantandome de la cama, caminando a la pasarela para esperar el bus, viendo la salida del sol en las montañas mientras vamos al colegio. Ni un día pasa que no me pregunto que están haciendo mis niños en Mocohán. Cierro mis ojos y veo sus caras. A veces creo que puedo oler el aire, sentir el viento soplando, sentir sus manos frías, tan pequeñas en las mías. Los recuerdos son tan vivos, tan reales, tan presentes…pero a la vez tan lejanos. Y para mi es muy dificil comprender por qué mi corazón se siente tanto cuando veo a estos niños preciosos. Por estos procesos y pensamientos yo he estado pasando por meses…hasta un día hace dos meses.

El 17 de abril, salí del aeropuerto en Guatemala y  me quedé allí parada en el mismo piso en que había parado este día en enero de 2,010…ansiosa, no sabiendo qúe esperar, preguntandome si estaba lista. El mismo piso en que había parado otra vez el día en noviembre cuando tuve que regresar a Canadá, llorando y llorando porque ya no me quería ir. Pero el 17 de abril, había regresado. Y estaba muy feliz. Como ahora estoy trabajando en un colegio cristiano en Regina, tuve la oportunidad de poder ir con ellos a Guatemala como una líder del grupo, así que estaba toda emocionada.

Pasé casi dos semanas en Guatemala. Ese viaje fue completamente diferente. Mucho ha cambiado. Pero todo lo que amo de Guatemala se queda igual. Vi a las caras de muchas personas que son muy cerca de mi corazón. Entré a la casa amarilla, mi casa, donde todavía estan viviendo dos queridas amigas, y vi algunos dibujos que yo había hecho todavía pegado a la refrigeradora, fotos de todas nosotras juntas colgadas en la pared. Caminaba por las calles tan familiares. Escuchaba el idioma más hermoso del mundo, y aunque fue un poco raro escucharlo salir de mi boca otra vez, cuando empecé a hablar, todo se volvió a ser excesivamente normal.

Sin embargo, la cosa que más yo quería, tuve que esperar. Estabamos en Guatemala por semana santa, entonces no habían clases toda la semana. Solo el lunes y martes ellos iban a estar en el colegio, y el miercoles ya sabía que nos íbamos ir. Entonces esperaba ansiosamente para el día en que podría ver a mis niños. Quería ver a mis niñas patrocinadas, Dulce y Delia. Un día todavía en las vacacciones, fuimos a Mocohán para trabajar. Mi corazón empezó a palpitar mientras nos acercabamos más y más al colegio que se había hecho parte de mi. La primera niña que nos vió fue la America, una pequeña loca con seis años y un montón de energías. Se quedó atrás por un poco cuando todos los del grupo bajaron del bus…pero yo corré a abrazarla y entonces ella ya no estaba timida, y yo estaba muy contenta verla. Mi niña patrocinada, Delia, vive muy cerca al colegio, entonces pregunté por ella. America me dijo que se había ido con su familia por el día, así que yo estaba un poco decepcionada. Pero un poco más tarde estaba caminando con America en la calle cuando de repente, tuve uno de esos momentos que jamás lo voy a olvidar en toda mi vida. Delia, con su mamá y hermana, apareció caminando por su casa, lejos todavía. Se paró y me miró por un momento. Mi corazón palpitaba fuerte. Y de repente, ella bajó su mochila, y empezó a correr a mi. Yo corré a ella. Saltó en mis brazos y me abrazó tan fuerte me exprimió. Damos vueltas, y la abrazaba y besaba…y estaba tan feliz que habría podido llorar. Me sentí como si fuera en una pelicula, fue surreal. Fue increíble.

El lunes el grupo se fue a Mocohán para la devocionál, entonces vi a mis niños. Cuando entré por la puerta, ellos gritaron mi nombre y vinieron corriendo a mi. Me rodearon, casi me caí por todos los niños alrededor de mi, abrazándome, agarrándome la mano…fue maravilloso. Después, empezamos la alabanza, y cuando ellos empezaron a cantar, yo empecé a llorar. No sé, pero algo me llega cuando veo a los niños adorando al Señor, y también porque extraño tanto a ellos. Oraron por el grupo y después oraron por mi, y yo seguí llorando. Entonces tuvimos una fila de abrazos y yo abrazé a cada niño en el colegio, y seguí llorando. Ja…estaba tratando de calmarme, pero estaba tan abrumada. Es loco que podría sentir tan profundemente triste pero tan increíblemente feliz al mismo tiempo.

El día llegó que me tuve que ir de Guatemala otra vez. Y lloraba un chorro la noche antes de cuando nos fuimos, pero a la vez me sentí como ni siquiera había que decir adios. Yo sé que todavía no he terminado allí. Ya es parte de mi, es parte de mi corazón…tanto que no lo comprendo. He anhelado por Guatemala más que nunca he querido a Canadá…y no es como no me encanta estar aqui con mi familia y otros que están cerca de mi, al contrario. Pero no sé…siempre ha sido algo dentro de mi que quiere más de lo que encuentro aquí en Canadá. Y Guatemala me ha robado el corazón. En camino de Guate, mientras acercando más y más a Tactic, recuerdo que me sentí una paz inconfundible en mi corazón. Respiré profundo y pensé…Ahora sí, estoy regresando a mi hogar.

Ahora estoy en Canadá otra vez. Yo no sé cuales son los planes que Dios tiene para mi, pero yo sé que él sabe mis sueños. Él sabe los deseos de mi corazón, lo que me hace feliz. Y me quiere mostrar su amor. Me está enseñando que si yo quiero decir que confío en el, pues tengo que entregar estos sueños. Tengo que entregarlos completamente a Dios. Él me va a llevar a Guatemala otra vez en su propio tiempo. Y hasta que ese día sea realidad, yo me puedo quedar con las memorias de esa gente hermosa y todos los niños preciosos grabadas en mi mente, tan real y tan vivo como el momento que por la primera vez pasaron.

Y ahora creo que estoy comenzando a entender por qué mi corazón tiene que sentir tanto. Es porque cuando veo a estos niños, me da una vislumbre de lo que Dios se siente cuando me ve a mí.

a glimpse.

Sometimes it feels like I’m sleeping. It feels like all of these memories of Guatemala are like a distant dream; it feels so surreal to think that six months ago that was my life. Six months that flew by yet trickled by like a lifetime. It’s so very different here. And though I’ve had to readjust to life here again, not a day passes by that I don’t picture getting up out of my bunk bed, walking to the bus, seeing the sun rise over the mountains while driving to school. Not a day passes by that I don’t wonder what my kids in Mocohan must be doing. I close my eyes and see their faces. Sometimes I think I can smell the air, feel the damp wind on my face, feel their cold little hands in mine. The memories are so vivid, so real, so present…yet they feel so very far away. And it’s hard to understand why my heart feels so very much when I see those precious kids. These are the thought processes I have been going through for months, and up until 3 weeks ago.

On April 17th, I jumped off of that plane and stepped out of the Guatemala City airport onto those same sidewalks I stood on, filled with anxiety, not knowing what to expect, and not knowing if I was ready that day in January 2010. Those same sidewalks that I stood on, crying my eyes out, that day in November when it was tearing my heart out, but I had to leave. But on April 17th, I was back. And I was so happy. Because of working at the Christian school in Regina, I got the opportunity to go with them as a leader on the missions team that they send to Guatemala every year. Of course I was thrilled.

I got to spend two weeks in Guatemala. This trip was entirely different; so much has changed. Yet everything I love about it stays the same. I saw the faces of so many people who are dear to my heart. I walked into my house, where two of my roommates from last year are still living, to see some random pictures that I coloured still hanging on the fridge and photographs of all of us together hanging on the wall. I walked up those familiar streets. I heard that beautiful language and though at first it felt strange hearing it come out of my mouth again, once I started speaking it all flooded back as exceedingly normal.

The one thing I wanted most, however, I had to wait for. We were in Guatemala during Easter break, so the kids weren’t in school all week. We had only the next Monday and Tuesday where they would be in school, then Wednesday morning we had to leave. I anxiously waited for the day I could see all my kids from Mocohan. I wanted to see my sponsor girls, Delia and Dulce. One day still during holidays, we went to Mocohan to do our work project. My heart started racing as we drove through this village and closer to the school that had become so much a part of me. The first girl to see me was America, a crazy little 6-year-old bundle of energy. She hung back at first when we piled out of the vans…but then I ran over and gave her a hug and my little crazy was back to her normal self, and I was so happy to see her. My sponsor girl Delia lives right by the school, so I asked America right away if she was home. America told me she had gone with her family for the day, so I was really disappointed. Later on, America and I were just walking down the road near the school, when suddenly I had one of those moments that I will never forget in all my life. I saw Delia with her mom and sister coming up the road. She stopped and stared for a few seconds. My heart was pounding. Then she dropped her backpack and started running to me. I ran to her. She jumped in my arms, wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed; I spun her around and hugged her and kissed her…and I was so happy I could’ve cried. I felt like I was in a movie; it was surreal. It was incredible.

On Monday the group went to Mocohan for their morning devotional, so I got to see all of my kids. When I walked in the door they called my name and ran to me. They surrounded me; I was losing my balance because so many kids were around me, hugging me, grabbing my hands…it was amazing. Then we started worship and I bawled through the whole thing, ha. It is just so powerful every time I see all of those kids cry out to Jesus, and I just miss them so much. They prayed for the group, then they prayed for me; I kept crying. We had a hug line and I got to hug every kid in that school, and I kept crying. Ha, the whole time we were there I kept trying to get a grip but was just so overwhelmed. It’s incredible how I could feel so profoundly sad yet so incredibly happy at the same time.

The time came for me to leave Guatemala once again. Of course I cried my eyes out the night before we left, but at the same time, I also felt like I didn’t even have to say goodbye. I know I’m not done there yet. It is so much a part of me and a part of my heart that I don’t even understand it. I’ve been so much more homesick for Guatemala than I ever have been for Canada…not that I don’t love being here with my family and others close to me, of course I do. But there’s just…something in me that has always wanted more than what I had experienced here in North America. And somehow Guatemala has gripped my heart. Driving from Guatemala City on our first day, as we got closer and closer to Tactic, I just remember feeling this unmistakable peace in my heart. I took a deep breath and just felt like, “Wow, yes…I am coming home.”

Now I am in Canada again. I don’t know what God has planned for me here, but I know that he knows my dreams. He knows my desires, what makes my heart happy. He wants to show me his love. And he is teaching me that if I really say I trust him, I have to give up those dreams. I have to give them up completely, and give them to him. He’ll bring me back to Guatemala in his time. And until that day, I can keep the memories of all those beautiful people and all of those precious kids etched in my memory, as real and vivid as the moment they first happened.

And now I think I am starting to understand why my heart has to feel so much. Because when I look at those kids…I get a glimpse of what God feels when He looks at me.

Delia

 

 

 

   

Dulce

 

 

winter.

It has been a long time. Since I got home, I have wrestled with the many challenges of transition and change. I have looked out the window for days on end to see the blur of white covering everything that once bloomed and grew. Though in the majority of places the grass was green and the flowers have been blooming for months now, here in Regina I find myself experiencing nearly half a year of winter. Cold, bleak, lifeless. Or so it seems.

I have realized that these seasons occur within the soul as well. For a time, everything is bright and new things are constantly springing into being. Then the wind starts to blow. Bright colours start to turn dull. And the winter comes. Just as so often God uses the natural world to give insight to the spiritual, so I think my soul has been in that dormant state of winter for a long time. It’s been hard coming back to Canada. Of course I love seeing my family and the people close to me. But beyond that, it has been difficult to find purpose in what seems so monotonous. I haven’t quite figured out my place here yet, or what God wants for me here. So in that state of wandering and wondering, it’s almost as if I were asleep. Those areas in my life that I felt were growing while I was in Guatemala I now feel are covered. Frozen. Dead. And so many times I ask myself what I can do to regenerate those things, how I can make this season go away. But the reality is that I didn’t cause this season, I can’t change it, I have no control over it…it simply is. Just as the seasons come and go every year, in the same way these phases of life, these seasons of the soul come and go. 

The winter seems lonely. It seems dry. It seems like it will never go away. It’s one of those times in life that God seems far away, and no matter how hard you try to read your Bible or go to church, He doesn’t seem any closer. In fact, reading your Bible and going to church and all those other little Christian routines may even make Him seem farther. The reality that I am grappling with is this: God is in the winter.

It is not a matter of trying to make the winter go away, it is a matter of recognizing what I am meant to do during the winter. There is never a time or a season that God does not want to use for His purposes. And though I may not see things growing in my life, they are there. Under the surface. Waiting to bloom. Now is when I just have to patiently wait, trusting that in the middle of what seems to be bleak and lifeless, God is still doing good things. It would be so much easier to trust God if the sun was always shining and we always felt its warmth. But in the winter, when white covers all that was once green and we can no longer feel the warth of the sun though we know that it’s still up there in the sky, that is when we learn to trust. That is when we find that faith is believing in the unseen.

The winter gives depth to faith.

So right now, for all of us who are experiencing the winter of the soul…may we know that this season too shall pass. But may we see that there is still good all around us – tobagganing, ice skating, snow angels, Christmas. May we believe that Jesus is in every season of the heart. And may we trust in this truth:

After winter always comes spring.

we do not lose heart.

A new year, a new beginning. I look back on the year and think about how unreal it is that time has passed so quickly, and how much has happened in my life since this time in 2010. At this date of last year, I was preparing to leave to Guatemala. I had no idea what I was getting into. I was scared, sad about leaving home, and had no idea the amazing things that were about to happen in my life. And then that year flew by. Guatemala became my home, and people there have changed my life. I have been home for 2 months today. And not a day passes that I don’t ache for Guatemala. And as I’ve tried to figure this out, to solve this restlessness in my spirit, I have realized that it is more than just an ache for Guatemala.

I felt it before I left too. While I was still in high school. When I was still a little kid. I think everyone feels it. Sometimes it’s weak…just a nudge, so faint that we can easily distract ourselves from that inner tugging and forget all about it. Sometimes, like for me right now, it is so strong that no matter what we do to busy ourselves and try to distract us from it, we can’t get away from this ache…this yearning innately placed within us, this desire for something more. We don’t even know what that something is, we can’t even explain what that desire means. But we walk this earth day in and day out with that ache from somewhere deep inside of us, some place that will always feel hollow until whatever it is that we’re unknowingly searching for finally becomes a reality.

In all of my trying to sort this out, I’ve really come to no conclusions. Other than that I know I am aching for home. Our real home. Heaven. I think God put that in us so that somehow we would know that we can never be complete without Him. I think that He made this place in our spirits that will always be empty, that will always be unsatisfied, until we experience the fullness of Him. We all feel it. We feel that we’ve lost something, but it is so faint that we can’t place what it is. But how can we feel that we’ve lost something unless at one point we really did have it? Romans 8 talks about the whole creation groaning with eager expectation for the revelation of Jesus Christ. We’re all groaning…like children who have gone hungry for so long that they don’t even remember the taste of fresh food in their mouths, they just know that they want it and they need it. Like hungry children, we know and feel just glimpses of what we had, of that former glory that we were all made for. And until that day that we see Jesus face to face…we will ache.

But even now, in our waiting, we do not lose heart. We can be encouraged just in knowing that we will not ache like this forever. There is an answer to all of our searching, there is a satisfaction to our discontent, there is a fulfillment for that inexplicable desire that seems to increase with each passing day. And when we finally reach it…it will be so much more than worth any pain we ever had to experience. 2 Corinthians 4:16-18 says,

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes no on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

We do not lose heart.

Yes, right now we ache. But we are being renewed. And every day we are getting closer to what we were created for. In this new year, this new beginning…may we realize that it is okay to ache. May we press into the meaning of faith. May we fix our eyes on the unseen. And may we never lose heart.

homesick.

Today is the 2nd of December, which means that I have been here in Canada for a month today. It’s incredible how time messes with your mind. Some days it feels as if I have already been here forever. Some days I feel like just yesterday I was in Guatemala with my kids, with my friends, walking through the market for groceries, driving in the school bus through the mountains to get to school. I am here, yet I am not. Though of course I love my family, and it’s good to see other people too, my heart aches for Guatemala.

Yesterday I was chatting with an amazing friend about how now looking back, it was so clear that God had everything so lined up, and even way before I knew I would end up living in Guatemala, God was so clearly rooting it into my heart. My friend found a piece that I wrote about 3 years ago after my fist time in Guatemala with a missions team, so she read it to me. And there are so many things I wrote that just get me, because I’m able to see how much God let my heart be attached to that country and those people even in 3 days of children’s ministry. No wonder my heart is breaking now…because it’s that same feeling, only multiplied for the 10 months that I spent there, not just 3 days.

So I wanted to post this piece that I wrote 3 years ago. I warn you now that this is a long post. Pretty long. But if you’re really interested, please read until the end. And it will give you a glimpse of what’s going on in my heart. And of what God was doing in my spirit even since 3 years ago. So here it is.

There are some moments that remain forever engrained in a person’s memory; the sights, sounds, smells, feelings. Such was a rainy, spring day of March 2008 as I sat in a crowded school bus on the perilous ride to the top of the hill, to the place known as Chixim. My team had made the journey from Canada, miles away, to here…Tactic, Guatemala.

I stared out the foggy school bus windows as we drew closer, wondering what we were going to do, as it was pouring rain, muddy everywhere. Our plans had been spoiled. Our day was now left to improvisation. We could do nothing but hope that somehow our spur-the-moment ideas would turn into something good.

The bus turned a corner, and from behind the trees, a massive cathedral came into view. The aroma of incense began to waft through the bus. To my surprise, however, we kept on driving right past the cathedral. My eyes wandered as I wondered where we were going, and then the bus came to a halt. I immediately looked up, and there I saw it.

At the top of this hill, I saw through the fog a tiny, run down, wooden shack of a school. Three rooms in total made up the only source of some these children’s education. My team loaded off the bus and walked towards the gate, trekking through the muddy field, not knowing what to expect. We all huddled in the covered area in front of the school to wait for instruction and to avoid further soaking. But my ears seemed to tune out all of the voices around me when I turned around and ran my hand along the wall, which was made up of nothing but old wood planks with cracks in between. This is how these kids live?

Suddenly a small hand reached through the cracks towards mine. I touched it; it was cold. It quickly withdrew to the sounds of shy laughter inside. I crouched down to get a glimpse through the crack. My heart fluttered in my chest when what met my eyes was another’s; big, deep, dark, brown eyes. We held each other’s gaze for a moment, then they were gone, leaving me staring through the cracks into this dismal room they called a class.

The rain dripping through the tin roof only made worse the dirt floor, which was covered with children’s muddy footprints. There were rows upon rows of desks with kids crowded into every open space, each one slowly making their way to the door and windows, peering around the corners to try to see us. Every second, another pair of eyes peeped through the cracks, or another tiny body crowded the door.

We all began to wave at the children; they smiled back, still to shy to come out of the building. I decided to pull out my camera. Every face in the doorway lit up when I asked in broken Spanish for a photo. A priceless memory that I can now carry with me forever was captured with a single flash, which somehow burst into a silent connection with those kids that I will never be able to explain.

The joy on the faces of those dirty, skinny children only increased from the moment the first picture was taken, and one by one, more kids began to trickle outside. In mere minutes, the roofed area in which we were sitting was filled with kids, laughter and camera flashes.

The rain was still pouring hard, and it was getting too crowded to remain under the tin roof. I didn’t know what to do; we had no plan. It was then that I saw the lone, brave guy on our team grab a soccer ball and slowly trudge out onto the muddy field. Everyone just stared at first as he took off his hood, looked a the sky, and smiled in the rain. He glanced back at the mass of kids huddled under the roof. One little boy ran to the field…then another…then another, and within seconds the field was strewn with yelling boys, laughing and screaming in their big, muddy soccer game.

That’s all it took to break the ice. All at once, some girls on my team pulled out a skip rope, others gave kids piggyback rides, and others simply sat with children in their laps. The next couple hours were a blur. Every child that I spun around in my arms, that held my hand, or that sat in my lap just grabbed another piece of my heart. I didn’t even realize that with every passing moment, it was beginning to feel more and more like home.

We went back the next day, this time met with kids lining the fence, their faces illuminating as we pulled up in the bus. Children came running when we walked through the gate, as if we’d known each other for a lifetime. The laughter and play immediately commenced; soccer balls flying, jump ropes whirling. The kids clung to us; each teammate walked around the rest of the day with a little Guatemalan shadow. I was playing with a bunch of girls on the field when something caught my eye.

I looked towards the schoolhouse and saw a little girl huddled in the corner, alone and crying. I went and sat beside her on the muddy landing, having no idea how I could help. I didn’t know what was wrong, I couldn’t find out; we didn’t even speak the same language. I did the only thing I knew how. Gently, I tried bringing her hands down from her face. She looked up at me, her dirty cheeks stained with tears. I held out my arms and looked at her straight in the eyes. She hesitated for a moment, but then her eyes met mine, and she fell into my open arms. Tears began welling up in my eyes as she nuzzled her head in my shoulder, wrapped her arms around my neck, and squeezed.

We just sat there. It was as if every perception of time was altered as as I held that little girl in my arms. I have no idea how long it was before the other kids eventually found me again and crowded around. Through much miming and hand actions, we discovered that my girl had been hit in the face with a soccer ball. Just then, the teachers called all the kids back to class. I set her down, wiped away her tears, then said goodbye and watched her slip back into class. Her tear-streaked face was all I could think of for the rest of the night.

We received the same welcome the next day, all of the kids just waiting for us to arrive. I was walking across the field when someone jumped on me from behind. I yelped, then turned around to see my little girl, face shining with a huge, sparkling smile. We played for the rest of the day, my pack of girls following me everywhere, each one soaking up every little bit of love they could get.

I was sitting on the landing when two of the girls ran up to me, hands behind their backs. They pulled out roses; fake, but so beautiful as they extended them to me. I was astonished. All of these kids had virtually nothing. They wore the same dirty, torn shirt every day. Their teeth were so rotten they turned black and were falling out. They were poor in every way but one…the richness of their love made me feel as though I’m the one in poverty.

The time came for us to leave, but no one wanted to go. It was our last day, the last time most of us would ever see these kids again. My head spun as the team leaders began tearing us away. I wanted to stay there forever. I was swarmed with kids, each one desperately trying to get one last hug.

One little girl hugged me over and over again, not wanting to ever let me leave her. She pulled out a small, folded piece of paper from her pocket. I opened it to see a drawing of two girls, one was her, the other was me, holding hands in a field of flowers under the sun. She hugged me and squeezed, kissed my cheek, and whispered softly, “Te quiero, amiga.” When I saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes, mine too began to blur over with tears which kept coming as I was forced to say the last goodbye.

I stood and began to walk to the bus, an unexpected ache in my heart. It’s so incredible how attached we got to those kids when we’re so entirely different. We came from different lifestyles, different cultures, and different languages. I didn’t even know how to communicate with them. But I guess I learned that the one universal language is love.

All those kids needed was for someone to pay them some attention. Every smile, hug, hand held and picture taken probably meant the world to them. As I sat in the bus, my tear filled eyes staring out the window at the children lining the fence to wave goodbye, I realized that in pouring myself out, I had gained so much in return. I fell in love with those kids, and now, though I sit here miles away from them, each precious face will remain etched in my memory forever.

I’m home now, and life carries on. I’m too often caught up in the chaos of every day life. But every night, when I finally stop going and just let myself be still, my mind is flooded with memories of those kids. I know that a part of me will always be homesick for them. And a piece of my heart will always sit at the top of a hill, in a little wooden shack of a school house.