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every day is a good day Sandy’s Adventures in Guatemala • 2015
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every day is a good daySandy’s Adventures in Guatemala • 2015
cover photo by lisa pangburn
GUATEMALA
GUATEMALA CITY
MONTERRICOEl Dormido
RIO DULCECuatro Cayos
Nacimiento
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Selfie on the plane from
Miami to Guatemala City
with Allison and Tara
Pastor David Alvarez met us at the airport with his crew of really
helpful guys
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The view from Centro Cristiano Cultural de Guatemala Church.
This is a volcano... the top is hiding in the clouds
Boston to Miami to Guatemala City to MonterricoThursday
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Packing our bags on top of the van for our drive to Monterrico. Despite all the tarps, they still got wet. :)
Patty takes in the beauty of this place.
The church’s large meeting room overlooks the city.
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monte
rrico
From the third floor of the retreat center in Monterrico, we had a front row view of the Pacific Ocean and the black sand beach. The roar of the waves was the constant soundtrack of our time here.
Hammocks... a whole room full of hammocks.
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Our Monterrico team from CCCG. (L-R) Issey, Carlos, Jacob, a lovely lady whose name I can’t remember,
Courtney, Diego and, I think, Issey’s son.
On Friday, after breakfast, we sorted the dresses made by dear CCOD women,
then set out for El Dormido for our
first eye clinic and VBS.
Setting up the eye clinic in less than ideal conditions.
See how hot it was? Poor Zack...
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El Dormido Friday
Lindsey and the children of El Dormido sit on the steps of the latrines. It was NOT fun going potty here. We had to have help holding up the doors.
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My eye screening cheat sheet.
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ClarityIt’s Friday, day two, and Lisa, Terry and I gather
around Zack for a crash course in pre-testing for
the eye exams. Courtney teaches us a few Spanish
phrases so we can ask some basic questions. I think
I have the words down, but when a real human stands
in front of me with real needs, looking at me like
I know what I am doing, my mind goes blank and
I lose all coherent thought.
Thankfully, Jacob is with us and he translates and
asks all the right questions while I dumbly hold the
card with the E’s pointing every which way. Zack
is the real hero here, finding prescriptions, fitting
glasses, giving little old ladies the gift of clear sight
for the first time in their lives and middle-aged men
the joy of being able to read again. But in the midst
of a long line of people, God gives me a gift.
“She says sometimes when she reads everything
is perfectly clear and other times it’s all a blur.” We
stand stumped for a moment wondering if perhaps
she just needs eye drops, when suddenly it hits me.
“Ask her how old she is.”
I think back to when I was 41 and my vision began
going haywire. It felt like there were rusty gears in
my eyes grinding as they tried to quickly shift focus
between far and close.
Sure enough, she is 39, and I hand her a pair of
readers with my condolences, secretly relieved that I
am an authority on something.
On Saturday Lisa does the pre-testing and she
is very good at it. On Monday, I inherit the job of
rummaging through bags of glasses from the Lion’s
Club, searching for pairs that are not ridiculous
holdovers from the 1970’s, watching people smile as
they put their new glasses on and take them off and
put them on again. I smile too. This job is a perfect fit.
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After we finished, we took a boat
to a small island in El Dormido that had been
recently devastated by flooding and
distributed dresses there. This was one of
my favorite places...such warm people
despite their hardship.
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Our team, plus a few sweet kids.
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We had the afternoon off for some needed rest. The pool was glorious and the beach was wild and dramatic with SUCH powerful waves.
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Pulling the Thread, Just Like Jen SaidIt’s a rainy night tonight—a torrential-coming-
down-sideways kind of rain.
CCCG’s retreat center in Monterrico is typical of
many structures here that make the outdoors part
of the living space. The building is shaped like a U
with a center courtyard graced by a pool and rising
palm trees. This is our dining room as well, with long
tables under the cover of the floor above us, but still
open to the world.
It offers little protection tonight and our meal is
interrupted as people run to get their Dollar Store
plastic ponchos. Everyone has wet feet, but those
sitting on the wrong side of the table also have rain
pouring down their backs. But we can’t complain—it
is bringing blessed relief from the oppressive heat.
Pastor David Alvarez invites us to pull our chairs
further into the shelter of the building so we can
talk, but we still have to shout over the downpour.
He tells us about himself many years ago—a young
man, feeling a call from God to minister to children
and bucking against it because, well, he didn’t like
kids. Leaning forward in his green plastic chair, he
speaks of the tiny church started in his home with
just a few couples. Those couples eventually had 22
children between them and the church’s ministry to
children was officially born.
As they taught their own, other kids followed and
it became apparent that they were not being
educated. So the little group became intentional
about schooling these young ones. Before long,
they noticed that the children were not thriving
despite their best efforts because they arrived at
school hungry.
The church began feeding them breakfast, and yet,
David says, they did not gain weight and were still
suffering. This led to the realization that many of
the children had parasites. And so, this small band
of believers began tending to the medical needs of
the children. And over time, their vision expanded
outward from Guatemala City into villages across
their country.
With moist eyes, Pastor David speaks of the
thousands of children who get breakfast every
other day and of the villages that now have middle
schools and high schools and their own children
who are grown and have taken up the mantle of
pastoring the church. And the hundreds of teams
that come to help and the financial support of
Rotary Clubs and American churches.
He talks about his church, still small, but incredibly
powerful because their culture is service and their
highest honor is to wash dishes and wait table
because they just might be pouring a drink for
Jesus, disguised as one of us.
But, David adds with a laugh, I still don’t really like
kids.
I think back to the study we recently finished in
our Sunday School class—“Pulling the Thread” by
Jen Hatmaker. She taught us that when we pull on
even just one thread, when we open our hearts in
obedience to just one thing our God is inviting us to
do, our carefully constructed lives begin to unravel,
one thing leads to another and suddenly we see our
world differently and obedience to God’s call starts
feeling less like a chore and more like an adventure.
Pastor David pulled one thread. He said “Yes” to
one thing and thousands are being blessed and
changed and introduced to the wild love of our God.
Not the least being these twelve wet gringos
ducking for cover, drenched by Grace.
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Guatemala CitySaturday and sunday
Mariale, the BEST translator ever!
Small group discussions
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Holly and I got up early on Saturday and Diego drove us back to Guatemala City for the women’s event. I called it a “Mini Retreat” because I shared a condensed version of my 2015 retreat materials, “Fearless Trust.”
Rosario. Or Rosaria... I can’t remember which!
Martha and Fabiola
MariaEmily
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After lunch, Byron gave Holly and me a city tour and we eventually met
up with the rest of our team at the market. Did some shopping.
Sweet dress for Hannah!
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Sunday: Church was a fabulous, 3 hour long time of worship. La Mujer
I live in the tension of opposing forces. One: I
enjoy practicing the gifts that God is unfolding in
me—gifts of teaching, speaking, writing and leading
women’s retreats and Bible studies. And two:
I know that I am one among many others who have
a similar worldview and similar talents. As long as
people are being led into the presence of Jesus,
I am happy. I don’t have to always be the person
leading them to Him. After all, this is His show,
not mine.
Early after I decide I am going to Guatemala, Zack
mentions that perhaps I might consider doing some
sort of event with the women at CCCG. He does
not bring it up again, and I decide that I will just go
and do whatever God puts in front of me and be
a servant and change toilet paper rolls and wash
dishes. Doing a retreat is impossible and I develop
a litany of reasons why it will not work. Surely these
women are already being fed. They do not need to
hear from me.
My friend Theresa is not impressed with my plan
and she lets me know in no uncertain terms that
I can NOT go all that way and not do something
with women. The next night I lay in bed, knowing
that God is keeping me awake. He begins making it
annoyingly clear that my reasons are not so noble
as I’m making them out to be. He’s good at that.
Turns out I am less concerned that they might not
need to hear from me and more concerned that
they might not want to hear from me.
“Fine,” I concede. “I will do this if You want me to, but
I need You to convince me that YOU want me to do
this.” Because I know His assurance is the only
thing that will quiet my heart about whether or not
they want it.
“La mujer.” It comes like a whispered thought in the
back of my mind as I search the scriptures to hear
His voice. I’m reading Isaiah, chapter after chapter,
and He is speaking through it, confirming Himself,
but over and over I keep repeating “La mujer. La
mujer.” A word I don’t know is tickling my brain like a
song that won’t leave. I know how to spell it, I know
how to pronounce it, but I don’t know what it means.
After hours, I finally pick up my iPad and find the
translation. “Woman.”
It’s three weeks later, and I am worshipping with 20
women who are, of course, singing and praying in
Spanish. I stand and speak through my translator,
Mariale, packing a weekend’s worth of teaching
and discussion into 3 short hours. More ladies are
trickling as the time ticks away, packing the small,
glassed-in patio to capacity. Children and a few
men hang at the edges, wandering in and out. Near
the end, I tell the story of “La mujer” and the act of
obedience that was being played out today.
Honestly, it’s hard for me to read this audience.
I see some nods, some smiles, some laughs, but
it is awkward to communicate with them as my
attention is divided between them and Mariale. As
I finish and pray for these women, I exit the center
knowing that I have done what God asked me to do
and satisfied with that, but unsure of the impact.
My kind, loving, merciful Father does not make
me wait. Rosario, the ladies’ leader, rises and says
something and suddenly Mariale rushes to my
side to translate for me. Four or five women come
forward and speak to what God anchored in their
hearts today. The last is Emily, who turns and looks
at me.
“I am the woman. I am the reason God asked you
to do this,” she says through shining tears. She
explains her life, the crazy busy-ness of it, and her
fear of stepping even more deeply into God’s call
for her. “My warrior name is Courage,” she tells me
and I can see on her face that she means to live it.
And today that is my name, too.
Jacob & Pablo
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Rio DulceSunday night through Thursday morning we stayed at
Hotel Viñas del Lago on the shores of Lake Izabal. It was a great home base. And it felt like Club Med.
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Allison and I chug down our “magic potion” in hopes that our intestinal issues will be healed and the team heads out to the site of the new retreat center in Rio Dulce. Most everyone works on the hole for the septic system, but thankfully, there is a job I can do... bending steel rods
into squares that will support the rebar that goes in the concrete walls.
Rio Dulce Retreat Center Monday a.m.
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Roberto and Ingrid’s home in Rio Dulce. We ate our lunches here.
Papayas!
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Cuatro Cayos monday p.m.
Loved this lady!
Bags and bags of glasses...
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inconvenienceThey said we’d be helping with the feeding
programs in several villages. We’d have to
leave by 4:30 a.m. so we would be there
to make and serve the children breakfast
before school. But the teachers are on strike,
which means no school. Which means no
feeding program. Instead we sleep until 7:00,
eat breakfast in the little restaurant that is
hosting us, then head out to the work site
for the new retreat center being built here in
Rio Dulce.
We stand around a hole in the ground, which
will one day become a septic system, and
receive our instructions. We must dig through
the clay with pickaxes and shovels and then
haul what is removed with wheelbarrows to
a site about 20 yards away that needs fill.
A steady trail of ants has been crawling up
our legs and when they find bare skin, the
howling and twitching and slapping begins.
Sweat pours down the back of my neck
before I have even taken up a shovel and I
distinctly remember the conversation that
took place months ago in which I said to
Zack “I’ll be really useless when it comes
to most manual labor” and he assured me
there would be other things to do. I look in
the hole and wonder how I will be getting out
once I get in. Then again, it may be a moot
point. My teammates might just be wise to
leave me in the hole as I will be dead by the
end of the day anyway.
My life is saved as Zack yells to Terry and me
that we are “needed” on another job. He and
Roberto lead us back to an old wooden jig
and introduce us to another man who shows
us how to cut steel rods to length and then
bend them into squares and rectangles. I
don’t know what the squares and rectangles
are for, but I am so grateful for this job, which
feels more like a sweaty Pinterest project
than actual work, that I don’t bother to ask.
I overhear the chaos back in the hole—
pickaxes are flying and ants are biting and
one guy gets hit in the head with his own
shovel. It’s miserable in the hole and I start
thinking about how inconvenient it is for us
that the teachers chose this week to strike so
we couldn’t do what we came here to do.
“How inconvenient for us.”
The teachers in this country want more
money. I don’t know if they need more
money, but teachers are not usually the
greedy type, so it’s a safe bet to say their
request is likely justified.
The children are not going to school. They
are not receiving the educations they so
desperately need in order to have any
chance of escaping poverty. Not going to
school also means they are not receiving
breakfast. Many are not eating at all.
We finish our manual labor detail at 11:30
and head back to Roberto and Ingrid’s house
for lunch. The threat of rain means that our
afternoon trip to Cuatro Cayos might be cut
short because the road will quickly become
impassable, but we head out anyway. As we
drive along, Ingrid tells Enrique to stop the
truck and pick up the grandmother who is
walking with a large bundle of firewood on
her head and her two young grandchildren
who carry only slightly smaller loads. Two
more children wait 30 yards up the road
and Enrique invites them to join us as well.
But there is no more room for the third and
fourth families walking miles and miles with
their heavy loads.
We arrive at Cuatro Cayos and offer another
eyeglass clinic and spend more time with
the children, working until 5:00, long past the
4:00 deadline for us to be out of the village
for safety’s sake. Roberto is impatient and I
am irritated, wondering why he would hurry
us when there are so many who need these
glasses.
Roberto drives this time and asks us again to
pray for the rain to hold off because as soon
as he gets home he has to eat quickly, then
turn and trek back across the dangerous
terrain to get needed supplies out to more
villages. After a day of digging the hole with
us, serving us lunch, riding in the cattle car
to Cuatro Cayos, translating for Zack and
driving us back for dinner, he still has many
more hours of work. He won’t be resting until
10 or 11 and he will get up tomorrow and do
the same thing all over again.
This is not his job—this is his life. There is no
separation between the two. And he gives his
whole self to it gladly and without complaint.
The next day, as we drive back from
Nacimientos, he asks me how I liked the
village. “Wonderful people.” I say. “It was a
good day.” He looks me square in the eye,
which makes me uncomfortable for more
reasons than the fact that he is driving. “No,”
he tells me. “Every day is a good day.” And
he means it.
And I sit in a stew of sweat and sweet shame
for the rest of ride home to our bountiful
meal and air-conditioned hotel and luxurious
pool, making a mental list of things I will not
be complaining about ever again. I hope.
Josh with the kids at VBS, ladies with bundles of firewood, and crops of African palm trees, used for
making palm oil.
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This is the reason we were praying that it would not rain. Any more water and we could
not have crossed here.
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Rio Dulce Retreat Center tuesday a.m.
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I further developed my rectangle making skills. The photo above
shows how they are used to tie together
lengths of rebar. Allison, Esther, Patty and Marianne show
just how sweaty they are as take a break
from digging the hole.
Not bad for two
hours of work!
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Nacimiento tuesday p.m.
A little pig laid down in a mud puddle in the road in front of us.
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The drive to Nacimiento was BREATHTAKING. We rode along a ridge between steep valleys and at some points we could see Lake Izabal far to the south.
Again, we did an eye clinic and a VBS with the kids. It was harder to communicate here because this is a Mayan village, so everything had to be translated first to Spanish and then to the Mayan language.
This lady watched us through the window all afternoon.
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Lisa made certain to find an especially attractive pair of glasses for Courtney.
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The sun was just beginning to set as we headed for home.
Made for a lovely drive.
Saying goodbye and taking some last photos.
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It was Lindsey’s birthday and Ingrid surprised her with a cake that was so perfectly
what she would have wanted, it made her cry.
TARANTULA!!!
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The hole, as we left it.
I was sick and had to stay back at the hotel, so
Patty took over my job.
Rio Dulce Retreat Center
Wednesday a.m.
I was sick and had to stay back at the hotel, so
Patty took over my job.
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Castillo de San Felipe de Lara wednesday p.m.
The Castillo de San Felipe de Lara is a Spanish colonial fort at the entrance to Lake Izabal. The rest of the team spent a sweaty afternoon touring the fort. I was still not feeling great, so I stayed back.
Apparently this place was not built with Zack in mind.
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High CallingsSome of the sweetest moments in this trip happen in the evenings when we
sit down together and recap the day, remembering both the high points and
the low points, the joys and the sorrows.
Lindsey always speaks of the children, which makes sense. She loves them
and they love her blond hair, her blue eyes, and her contagious warmth and
they regularly attach themselves to her hands and legs.
Tonight she expresses frustration with the language barrier. She wishes
she could understand their questions and their jibber-jabber with each
other. But her face eases as she remembers a quiet moment seated on the
ground with a little one’s head on her lap. While she stroked the child’s hair,
brown eyes looked upward and held her gaze and a little hand reached her
face and brushed lightly over her skin. In that moment, she tells us, there
was no language barrier—they were both speaking the common tongue of
tenderness, love and grace.
I, too, have been frustrated by our inability to communicate. How can we
express to them that God sees their lives and loves their hearts and wants
a relationship with them if all we can do is count to 14 and ask where the
bathroom is located?
But as Lindsey speaks, I remember the passage in Mark 10 that I happened
upon last night. “‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these’. . .and he took the children
in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them.”
He put his hands on them and blessed them.
It strikes me that He did not seat them and hand out coloring papers,
explaining points of theology and singing songs about what the Bible does
or does not say. There is nothing wrong with those things, in fact there is
something vital about those things, but they are not what Jesus chose to
do. Jesus chose to make physical contact and pronounce them worthy of
the affection of the God of the universe.
When Lindsey runs her fingers through a little child’s hair, when Patty and I
hold the hands of a young girl as she lifts her legs off the ground to swing
between us, as we let them choose a new dress or an airplane, or when
Marianne kicks the soccer ball with them and Tara and Allison paint flowers
on their faces, we are doing what Jesus did.
We are placing our hands on them and blessing them and participating in
the highest of callings—the call to love without reservation.
On our last evening in Rio Dulce we treated ourselves to some french fries and sodas at the hotel restaurant.
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Back to Guatemala City ThursdayWe stopped on the bridge over the Rio Dulce for some photos. We might be smiling, but it was actually a sad, hard drive back. Our time was finished much too soon.
“Mi fuerza! Mi Guate!”
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Stopped at Pollo Campero for lunch, then the van had a flat, so we hung out in a grocery store while the tire was changed. Esther shared some “choco bananas.”
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Somehow no one got photos of our last night in Guatemala City except this one of me and Emily, which I treasure.
I’m not surprised. Our last meal with the pastors of the church and with the team who served us seemed somehow holy. Fabiola sat next to me and I was comforted by her sweet presence as I struggled to take in these last few memories.
Pastor David invited us to share our favorite moments from the week and then he blessed us with kind words of thanks and encouragement.
I am so grateful for these people, for the chance to serve in some small way and for my team who I love like family. God is good to us.
CourageAll the children, pressing close to us, hanging from our arms
and all the lines of people waiting for glasses, hoping for new or
renewed vision and yet the thing that stands out most to me
are the people who travelled with us. People of Centro Cristiano
Cultural de Guatemala Church and other visiting missionaries
who arrange their lives so that they can serve.
Serve us, serve the people in the villages, serve each other.
There was not a bag I lifted that was not soon taken up by
one of these humble people who appeared out of nowhere
and insisted that I allow them to bear my burden. Plates of
food were brought out and removed with the precision of a
restaurant. My cup was only empty if I asked for it to be. “No
mas” was the word of the week because they always wanted to
give us more.
It is humbling to be served by a real servant.
I don’t want to romanticize their lives. I know it’s not always
easy for them. I know this isn’t some idyllic place where every
heart is magically content to be busy all the time. Emily made
clear to us ridiculousness of her schedule when she spoke after
the retreat. Her children, her job, her husband, her church, her
home—the demand is constant and overwhelming. She has
spent months struggling with a request from her pastors to
take on leadership of a cell group, stressed by the prospect of
adding this huge task to everything else in her busy life.
And yet, when she hears me tell her “The Lord is with you,
mighty warrior” and when she hears Him call her “Courage,”
she decides she can trust Him enough to say “Yes.”
Truly, to be a servant requires great courage. Courage to set
aside my own rights, my own importance, my own comfort and
take up the privilege of doing the menial and the overwhelming.
Courage to choose to see the needs of others when I am
exhausted by my own needs. Courage to serve with joy and
compassion and to envision every act as one done for the God
who did All for us.
This is the Kingdom of God: mutual service, being in this with
each other not 50/50 but 100/100, giving everything to others
as they in turn give everything to us.
Special thanks to Esther Littlefield, Zack Cain, Lisa Pangburn,
Caleb Smith and Holly Littlefield for the use of your wonderful
photos in addition to my own.
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perspectiveMay I never complain again
that it is too hot
that it is too cold.
May I never complain
that my home is not big enough
or comfortable enough
or fancy enough.
May I never again stand in front of my full refrigerator
complaining that I can’t decide what to have for lunch.
May I never complain about
the state of our roads
or the length of our traffic lights
or the craziness of our drivers
Or that my car is too old
or the wrong color.
May I never complain
that my shower is too weak
or that my water makes my white clothes slightly yellow.
May I never again wonder whether Jesus loves me.
May I never again ask Him to prove it.
May I see my life and every day I live it and everything I have
as gifts that not everyone gets.
Gifts I was meant to share.
May I see that, indeed, every day is a good day.