Where the missteps lead

I packed the wrong bag. Really, I wish I had a better opener to explain one of the most powerful and profound moments of my year, but I realize in many ways, it comes down to something as simple as that.

But I guess it really all started in 2003 when I realized I’m a horrible cement mixer. This was when I was down in Tijuana, Mexico with Loyola Marymount University on one of their weekend service and immersion trips called De Colores. If you were as bad as I was at mixing cement you had two options: You could perfect your cement mixing abilities, or you could inconspicuously sneak away and play with the kids from the community who came with their parents to the house build projects.

And so it was that I came to know Eric, and countless other kids in the local community called Tecolote that we worked in. Eric and his siblings grew close to many of us, so much so that one of Eric’s youngest siblings is actually named after a friend of mine who went on these trips. On my last trip as a student, another friend Diego gifted Eric a beanie with the logo of the service organization called Magis we were a part of. 

Eric, with Diego after being given his Magis beanie.

After I graduated, the beauty of Facebook updates from friends still at LMU allowed me to learn bits and pieces of how Eric and his family were, and time and again, the beanie was in the photos. But the photos and updates gradually disappeared as the work De Colores was doing moved away from Tecolote and into another community- El Florido. And before I knew it, I was left wondering about Eric, where he was, and what he was doing.

This past September, I became the interim Director of the De Colores service program, meaning I am now the one responsible for bringing LMU students down to Mexico. On Friday, I was frantically packing to get ready for the trip and for reasons I’ll never fully understand I walked right past my usual Mexico duffle bag and instead grabbed a bag off my closet shelf I haven’t used for a couple years now.

Fast forward to Sunday, and Build a Miracle, the nonprofit we work with in Tijuana hosted a holiday party for all the people who have received a home through their organization. A young man who looked to be about 20 caught my attention. He looked different, older obviously, and yet something inside told me it was Eric.

I got to spend a good amount of time with Eric and his family that Sunday. We exchanged stories and updates; them asking me about other students that had been part of my time period, me asking about members of the community that treated me like one of their own. Eric asked about Diego, and some of the other guys in the service organization, and told me he was an unofficial member of Magis even though his beanie had been stolen long ago. And it was then I knew, I hadn’t packed the wrong bag after all.

You see, the night before, I had been looking for my toothpaste and some other items I forgot to bring because I always keep them packed in my trusty blue duffle bag. I was frustrated and cursing my error when I felt something at the bottom of the bag: My Magis beanie. Seeing it Saturday night instantly brought back powerful memories of Eric, his siblings, and other members of the community I came to care about that kept me awake for much of the night. And here’s the thing- if I had the right bag, I never would have had the beanie and I probably wouldn't have thought about Eric and his family that night. I really don't think I would have recognized Eric that next day, he would have just been a face among the hundreds there that day.

Eric, with his new Magis beanie

God has a great sense of humor. Just when I think I have every detail choreographed, a wrench is thrown into the plan. Isn’t that life, in ways big and small? The challenge then isn’t avoiding the missteps, but rather in remaining constantly open to where and whom they might lead you to. 

Cuestion de Fe

As he reached for the bottle of beer, I figured our drinking would begin. Instead, he opened the bottle, poured some of the beer onto the wall of stone in front of us, and quietly with knuckles already red with blood grabbed for the sledgehammer again. He turned to me, with a serious look of conviction in his eyes, sweat on his brow, and told me, ¨es cuestion de fe.¨ Silently I watched, repeating to myself what he had just told me, ¨it´s a matter of faith.¨

There is so much I want to share with you all and so much that is building within me, but all I want to say just will not come out right. I am tripping over words in Spanish and now even in English, and thus, the high altitude of Bolivia is not the only thing that has got my head spinning.

It was not until the day I journeyed to Quillacollo that I felt capable of sharing a little more about life in Bolivia.

I woke up early one Friday to navigate the ever so crazy streets of Cochabamba, a city that does not believe in stop signs or traffic signals, only good horns, and better breaks. Our destination: Quillacollo, a place place rooted in the history of Bolivia, where it is said the Virgin de Urkupina appeared to a person in need of help (sound like a famous virgin in Mexico and elsewhere?). At this shrine, I watch as my host family, who I have known for only two days , purchases a little toy house, fake money, and bottles of beer. Do not fear my friends, the beer was neither little or fake. The legend around this place we were visiting is that if you pray to the Virgin for what you most need, and return with those little items you bought and provide as offerings, she will provide what you need in full. I was both intrigued and confused.

It´s a matter of faith, es cuestion de fe, Pablo, my host brother told me, as we hiked up this large hill. We said our prayers to the shrine of the Virgin, and climbed some more, casita, beer, money, and now, a sledgehammer in hand. The sole purpose of the sledgehammer is to go to town on this huge rock, and any chippings that fall off, no matter big or small, must be saved, and returned the next year in order for your prayers to come true. And so as we approached the wall, more prayers were said, beer then poured out onto the wall and the ground in front of it, a tribute to the pachamama, or mother earth, a Bolivian tradition that is done frequently when consuming beer, because it is to the Pachamama that we owe our gratitude for life on earth.

For the next thirty minutes, my family hammered away at this wall of stone, collecting every little chip, big or small, that broke away as a result of their hardwork. They worked tirelessly at this task, explaining to me that you just can not pray for the things you want, you must in some way work for the things you want as well. Es fe, cuestion de fe, I hear over and over until it is engrained into my own head: it is a matter of faith. I look at my host brother, hands red with his own blood, face wet with his own sweat, and realize that this rich culture that has found a way to maintain its cultural native routes while blending the Catholic religiosity that defines so much of Latin America perhaps has a thing or two to teach me.

And as much as I would love to have the story ability to more effectively tell the story of this sometimes exciting, sometimes bizzare journey, but I realized through this experience with my host family, I can´t tell it. It simply has to be a matter of faith that those who need to understand, do.