Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Encuentro con un salmista


Mi primer ficción en español. Espero que lo disfruten. :)



Encuentro con un salmista
No dijo nada a nadie, ni siquiera a ella, el día en que él se desapareció.  Se fue sin despedida, como vino sin anunciada.
Llegó en una temporada de frío inusual.  Las hojas de los árboles que bordeaban las calles justo habían empezado a ponerse su vestimiento de otoño, pero los vientos llevaban un escalofrío que penetraba no sólo las chamarras sino los huesos.  Toda esa temporada le daba a uno la sensación de una extrañeza palpable, y la gente la podía sentir.  Las personas caminaban por las calles con cuidado, aunque no podían identificar la razón por su inquietud.  Se miraban unos a otros con una sospecha que no podían ubicar.  
Todo parecía muy normal.  Cada mañana la panadería cerca de la casa de ella despedía su olor de harina y levadura.  Todavía los guías turísticos en su camino a trabajar la solicitaban para que viera el duomo y el David, sin saber que ella había vivido en Florencia desde hace veinte años.   Pero a pesar de las apariencias, había algo curioso en esos días, algo que desestabilizaba la conciencia pública como un rumor tácito o la brisa invisible que arremolina las hojas caídas.  
Y entonces, una noche, él llegó a su puerta con un toque casi inaudible.  Ella abrió la puerta y se quedó sin aliento.  Estaba completamete desnudo a excepción de una especie de taparrabos mal hecho de folletos de museo, y estaba llorando.  Le rogó a ella con lágrimas y en un italiano con accento extraño que lo dejara entrar.  No lo habría permitido, habría cerrado la puerta y llamado a la policía que un lúnatico la estaba asaltando.  Pero él era tan sincero, y algo en su manera le decía que era confiable y realmente necesitaba su ayuda.  
Una vez en el salón, podía verlo bien.  Se quedaron mirándose en silencio unos largos minutos.  Nunca había visto un hombre más hermoso.  Era alto y espléndido, con un cuerpo de carnes apretadas como si fuera esculpido, piel de porcelana, y rizos de pelo castaño que perfectamente enmarcaban la cara de un príncipe.                        
En un sentido, ella era su opuesto.  Mediana de estatura, sencilla, casera, tenía un aspecto modesto contra su hermosura escandalosa.  Sin embargo, él también se quedó fascinado.  Ella era una criatura de carne y sangre, calentita y mullida, con imperfecciones extrañamente atrayentes.  
Después de ese silencio de examinación y no sabiendo qué hacer, ella se fue a recuperar un albornoz y un pañuelo de su cuarto.  Él inspeccionó su alrededor.  Un salón modesto, como la dueña - dos sillones, un estante pequeño casi cayendose por sostener tantos libros, una mesita donde ella colocaba su té mientras leía sola los sabados por la noche.  
Regresó con el albornoz y el pañuelo y se los ofreció a él, ojos dirigidos hacia el piso por vergüenza, para que no lo viera más en tal estado.  Se vistió y, al gesto de ella, se sentó en el sillón, secándose las mejillas de las lágrimas con el pañuelo.  El albornoz rosa y aterciopelado le quedó ridículosamente.  Se veía como un flamenco enorme, aturrullado y mudando de plumas.  
La fijó con sus ojos honestos, del mismo color que su pelo y todavía brillando con lágrimas.  Le pidió perdon por el alboroto inesperado y por su estado desaliñado y indecente.  Sólo era que él tenía un miedo terrible a los palomas.  
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La próxima mañana, ella se despertó y bajó las escaleras al salón con timidez, insegura si lo que le pasó anoche fuera real.  Pero allí estaba.  Como era una mujer soltera en una casa con un sólo cuarto, no tenía mucho para ofrecerle.  Pero le había puesto unas cobijas y almohadas en el piso del salón, y todavía él se quedaba allí dormido.  La luz que entraba por la ventana iluminaba a su cara y parecía que él brillaba.  Ella todavía no podía ubicarlo, pero ciertamente no era un hombre normal.  Aunque llevara el absurdo albornoz, se veía como un dios griego, un Hermes confundido que se había equivocado y llegó a Florencia en vez de a Olimpo.  
Ni modo.  Sea hombre o sea otro, tendría que desayunar.  Ella le despegó la vista y se fue a la cocina.  Nada había cambiado mucho.  Sólo sería un desayuno para dos.  
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Él se despertó por el olor rico de prosciutto, pan y café.  Entró la cocina todavía vestido en el albornoz y con los ojos muy abiertos, como de sorpesa.  Miró con curiosidad a la mesa arreglada con la comida y dos platos.  Se quedó sin mover mientras ella preparaba su propia taza de café, dos cucharas de azúcar y tres de leche como siempre.  Lo miró.  Parecía incómodo, parado con la cara en una expresión confundida, como si no hubiera visto antes un desayuno de verdad.  Le inspiraba piedad en ella este hombre tan extraño y fuera de lugar, pobrecito hermoso.  
“Siéntate.  Come.  No tengas miedo.”  
Le dio una sonrisa agredecida y exquisita; tenía dientes que parecían ser del mármol más fino y blanco del mundo.  Se sentó y tomó los cubiertos tentativamente.  Su cara se iluminó con la primera mordida y empezó a comer más y más rápido y más y más vorazmente hasta que su uso inepto de los cubiertos ya no se facilitó su entusiasmo y él los abandonó a favor de las manos.  
Ella también se sentó frente a él y lo observó perpleja, pero él estaba demasiado preocupado para darse cuenta de su mirada.  ¿No podría ser un sueco excéntrico que había interrumpido su rutina?  Una vez escuchó la historia de un sueco que viajó a México y causó una verdadera batalla en un pueblo pequeño por el derecho a llevar los calcetines en la alberca.  
Era una criatura de hábitos.  Cada mañana, mientras desayunaba, estaba acostumbrada a leer el diario.  Estaba decidida a que esa mañana no sería diferente, al menos en este aspecto, aunque un hombre hermoso y perfecto estuviera comiendo como un salvaje moriendo de hambre al otro lado de la mesa.  Tratando de mantener la normalidad frente a todo eso extraño, tomó el primer sorbo de su café y abrió el periódico.  
Su mandíbula cayó en silencio, y sus manos empezaron a temblar, casi haciendo el café derramar.  Poco a poco, con un temor que podía sentir en el estómago, alzó los ojos hacia él.  
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Después de haber calmado su pánico matinal, ella decidió tomar el camino práctico.  Sea o no sea lo que estaba pensando, él necesitaría ropa.  No podría andar con aquel albornoz tonto para siempre.  Y además, atraería menos atención vestido de lo corriente, tal vez de algo que podría atenuar su encanto.
No podía llevarlo de compras como eso.  Necesitaban un disfraz y mucho cuidado.  Sólo tenerlo en su casa podría ser una felonía por sí mismo.  
No obstante, por suerte una feria ambulante estaba pasando por la ciudad durante ese tiempo.  Gente de toda especia fueron caminando por las calles gracias a la feria, y un raro más apenas llamaría la atención de nadie.  Dio la casualidad de que ella todavía tenía en su armario una máscara y un manto de su viaje al Carnaval de Venecia hace unos años que serviría perfectamente.  
Ella le ayudó a vesitrse del manto largo de terciopelo negro.  La máscara, de cara blanca de mujer con labios rojos y satinados pero sin expresión, le daba un aspecto especialmente espectral, y combinado con su gracia peculiar de moverse se veía como un gran fantasma alto flotando por las calles.
A él le encantaba la sensación de la tela lisa del manto sobre su piel.  Se quedaron en el salón dentro de media hora, esperando hasta que él tenía tiempo suficiente para explorarlo.  Tenía razón, ella pensaba.  Acaso nadie se le había permitido tocarlo hace siglos.  
Este fenómeno continuó mientras iban de compras.  Ella lo explicó por la excentricidad a los dependientes confundidos de los almacenes.  El vestuario se convirtió en su espacio de experimentación.  Le deleitaban texturas y telas nunca antes imaginadas - seda, algodón, lino, lana.  Abrigos de piel, lentejuelas, pantalones de cuero, boas de plumas.  Por fin se quedó con un suéter de casimir y pantalones de pana.  
Mientras caminaban, inspiraba miradas pasmadas.  Algunos, de ambos sexos, se detuvieron inmóviles sólo para mirarlo.  Fingieron como si fuera ordinario.  Él le contaba historias de todo lo que había visto en sus largos años solitarios.  Ella lo escuchaba todo asombrada y trató de explicarle el mundo desconocido a su alrededor.  ¿Cómo sería una vida como aquella tan aislada y muda y distante?  Casi lloró cuando él le preguntó tan seriamente dónde estaba la casa de un cierto Miguel.  Le dijo que había sido su único amigo y quería visitarlo.  
Su posición sólo se vio comprometida en una situación angustiosa.  Decidieron tomar helado en un parque y se sentaron en un banco bajo la sombra de los árboles coloridos.  En medio de la conversación, él se calló de repente y empezó a temblar.  Ella siguió su mirada temerosa.  Una palmoa sin pretensiones, a sólo unos metros de distancia.  No pasó mucho tiempo hasta que llegaron otras, gracias a unas migas de pan dejadas más temprano por un viejo habitual del parque.  
El pánico crecía con cada paloma que llegó.  Ella trató de comportarse como si no pasara nada, esperando disminuir su terror aparente.  
- Cuéntame otra historia de tu amigo Miguel.  Me parece un hombre increiblemente interesante.  ¿Qué fue lo que ibas deciendo sobre sus problemas de la espalda?  
Sus esfuerzos a tranquilizarlo fueron en vano.  Se había puesto pálido, sudor brillando en el frente, y sus ojos parecían a punto de llorar.  No tenía el poder de resistir el temor y quedarse en el banco un instante más.  Con un grito desesperado, se echó a correr y huyó del parque, sacandose el suéter nuevo alrededor de su cabeza exquisita para protegerla de los monstruos alados.  
Ella pensó que estaba frita.  Seguramente alguien se daría cuenta.  La policía vendría.  Ella sería detenida, ciertamente por algunos cargos bastante inusuales.  Y sólo Dios sabía lo que harían con él.  Lo siguió corriendo.  
Había atravesado más o menos un kilómetro cuando lo encontró desplomado y en sollozos contra un poste de luz.  Avergonzado, pidió disculpas y le explicó una vez más su miedo intenso de las palomas.  Su estado lamentable inspiró tanta compasión en ella que se sentía que tenían que hacer algo.  Le extendió la mano y lo ayudó a levantarse.  
- Vámonos.  No puedes vivir así.    
Ella lo tomó de la mano, y empezaron a caminar rápido, la cara de ella de ella resuelta, la de él nerviosa.  Caminaron en silencio, manos entrelazadas, hasta llegaron a un edifico antigüo y grande con jardines por ambos lados.  
- ¿Dónde estamos?  
-  Vas a ver.  Hay que enfrentarse a los temores.
Entraron el edificio, ella aún llevandolo de la mano.  Fue un santuario de aves.  
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  Después de uno días se recuperó del trauma inicial, e incluso fue capaz de darle las gracias a ella por la experiencia.  Él había sido cambiado y ya no había necesidad de temor a lo que se refería a su existencia anterior.  Los que antes habían sido terrores alados ya no podían hacerle ningún daño.  
Pasaron los meses siguientes de manera agradable.  Él siguió aprendiendo más y acostumbrandose a su nuevo mundo.  Incluso consiguió un trabajo como repartidor de pizza, lo que significó a la larga muchas órdenes más por la pizzería, una vez que se corrió la voz del increíblemente guapo empleado nuevo.
Ella también disfrutó de tenerlo en casa.  Se podría sentir dolorosamente sola por los inviernos en la casa vacía y silenciosa.  Pero él llevaba consigo ruido y confusión y movimiento.  Se iluminó la casa y amenizó su vida, y ella estaba agradecida.  
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Un día llegó a casa desolado.  Se quedó en el sillón dentro de una hora, inmóvil, ojos enrojecidos de llanto, mirando a la pared, sin decir ni una palabra.
Por fin le habló, rompiendose a llorar otra vez.  Ella lo abrazó con ternura de madre, y él le hundió la cara en su hombro, sollozando.  
Ese día, extrañamente, no estaba muy ocupado por la pizzería y decidió tomar un recorrido por la ciudad.  Había ido a los Jardines de Boboli.*  Sus compañeros estaban allí, detenidos en tiempo y espacio, separados de toda la plentitud de la nueva vida que él había recibido.  
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Hoy en día, se puede ver casi una réplica exacta de la obra maestra de Michelangelo en la Galería de la Academia, ubicada en Florencia, Italia.  El original todavía no se ha encontrado.  


“Este mundo es un gran taller de escultor.  Somos las estatuas.  Y hay un rumor en el taller que algunos de nosotros, algún día, se van a llegar a la vida.”

-C. S. Lewis
(escritor inglés, 1898-1963)
    

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Reflections on Joel

A journal entry on something beautiful I'd like to share.  My thoughts are short, and I do believe there are many New Testament verses that correlate if anyone wishes to take the time to find them and share.  I hope this encourages you; He is so good to us.  :)

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     "'Yet even more,' declares the Lord, 'return to me with all your heart, with fasting, with weeping, and with mourning; and rend your hearts and not your garments.'
     "Return to the Lord your God, for He is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love; and He relents over disaster. Who knows whether He will not turn and relent and, and leave a blessing behind Him, a grain offering and a drink offering for the Lord your God?" - Joel 2:12-14

     "Fear not, O land; be glad and rejoice, for the Lord has done great things! Fear not, you beasts of the field, for the pastures of the wilderness are green; the tree bears its fruit; the fig tree and vine give their full yield.
     "Be glad, O children of Zion, and rejoice in the Lord your God, for He has given the early rain for your vindication; He has poured down for you abundant rain, the early and the latter rain, as before.
     "The threshing floors shall be full of grain; the vats shall overflow with wine and oil. I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the hopper, the destroyer, and the cutter, my great army, which I sent among you.
     "You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the Lord your God, who has dealt wondrously with you. And My people shall never again be put to shame. You shall know that I am in the midst of Israel, and that I am the Lord your God and there is none else. And my people shall never again be put to shame."     - God (Joel 2:21-27)

     This is all about God "dealing wondrously" with Israel, turning punishment into grace and wrath into blessing.  How He has done that with us in Jesus! God's command to His people here is to rejoice in His love and mercy, and He leaves behind Him an offering to be given back in celebration, rather than the destruction His wrath would bring.
      We, too, have been saved from destruction.  Maybe not from physical locusts, but from many other kinds of death. And we too have an offering to give - namely, ourselves, renewed in the Spirit and being made able to live a life that pleases God. And what should be our response? Rejoice! Our lives should be a joyful, celebratory offering, declaring God's goodness and grace.  

Saturday, June 11, 2011

You're all chickens?


Some writing "sketches" of a couple of scenes from today:

“This may be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done!”  I shouted to Courtney in the water below me.  
The tree was at least 20 feet above the water, and I balanced on the farthest reaching branch, my toes gripping the bark for dear life, one arm holding the limb in a death grip and the other reaching for the rope swing.  I had scrambled up like Tarzan, no shoes, wearing just my bathing suit.  The wooden handle of the rope swing was smooth, and I was having second thoughts about being able to hold onto it well.  I was also having second thoughts about scurrying up a huge tree with no other way to get down than to swing off into the river below on a homemade rope swing.  
I’m not gonna die.  All the local boys do this easy, right?  But this is a giant Tarzan tree.  I’ve never swung off a giant Tarzan tree into a river before.  But when’s the next time I’ll get to do this?  You never know, but you shouldn’t waste golden opportunities.  
                   1 Peter 3.  You are daughters of holy women, who put their hope in God, if you do not fear anything that is frightening.  Hope in God produces courage.  When we hope in God, we do not need to fear.  Anything.  Submission, the future, the present, a rope swing.  As a little girl, watching Carmen Sandiego on TV, I often wondered whether I might grow up to be some daring woman who could travel the world and try anything, unafraid in the face of danger.  I don't know that I've reached that point; I don't know that I ever will, at least on earth.  But over the years of my short life, I can see myself changing.  Or maybe I'm not necessarily changing.  Maybe God's just freeing me to be more how I'm supposed to be, more like He made me to be, more like that fearless woman a little girl dreams she'll be.  Crouching up in this Tarzan tree, perched high above the water, the Fiji sun lighting up everything around me with a brilliant evening glow, all this hits me.  I want my life to be an adventure, and I don't want my best stories to be about how my pump didn't work at the gas station once.        
                   But I can only think about it for a second.  All the local boys do this easy.  3,2,1...go. 


[It's really a Tarzan tree, isn't it?  Can you spot the rope swing dangling?]

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“Can you please take it!” 
It’s more a frantic plea than a question from Elias, a little Indian boy, squatting in a tiny tin chicken shed in his backyard, wrestling with a brown ball of feathers.  I’ve never carried a chicken before, at least not a full grown one.  
“Yeah!”  
I grab the bird by its legs and quickly carry it, squawking and thrashing about, across the yard.  We lift up the side of the new chicken coop, and I set the bird down as gently as possible, given the circumstances.  That’s the last one, and now the coop is full - five brand new laying hens.  
We’ve visited my friend again, and today is a celebratory day.  The new team that just arrived this morning has come, and we just finished building her new chicken coop - a half sphere of PVC pipe and chicken wire that is both affordable and moveable.  The land that gets fertilized by the chickens can be used to plant a garden as the coop moves around the yard.  
I sit down with my friend in her tiny house and we go over how to use her new ledger.  The money she spends, the money she earns, how to balance things out, save her profits and reinvest.  She’s starting with five chickens today, but she’ll sell them and soon five chickens will turn into seven, then nine, then twelve.  The plan we made on Wednesday is turning into a reality.    
“Today has been a busy day, but it has been a wonderful day!  I got to share with two people about Christ, and I bought my chickens.”  Her eyes glow.  She works so hard and wants to provide for her baby son.  He just learned to walk two days ago, she tells me.  
“What should it be called?” she asks, pointing to the ledger.  
“You should name it, whatever you want.”  
She smiles and names it for her son.  Zac’s Chicken Camp Book.  


[The Edge team became expert chicken transporters on their first day. :)]


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I don’t have much energy left for creative writing anymore, but I want to share with you all in more concrete terms what I’ve been up to lately.  On Wednesday, I visited my friend again, the one I’ve written about here.  She’s a single mom, my age, who lives in a large, very poor family.  I spent the morning with her family, and we ate another wonderful lunch together.  We talked about some business plans she’d been thinking over, ways to provide for her baby son.  We settled on a plan of selling chickens and their eggs on credit to the sugar cane cutters in the area.  I had the privilege of going through all the math with her, teaching her how to manage a ledger and considering together some of the possible issues that might arise in going forward with this.  She was super excited by the time I left, and so was I.  
This morning, then, a new team arrived.  (These three people are the Edge team, and I was in their position one year ago in India.  I'm so excited for everything they're about to experience!)  Shortly after they arrived, we went through a trial run, doing a test build, all of us learning how to build a chicken coop for the first time.  Then we disassembled it, loaded it in the truck and headed to the market to pick up my friend.  We picked her up, along with her five chickens, and headed to her house, the chickens riding on our laps in paper sacks with their heads sticking out.  We put them in a tiny tin coop, originally for the family’s one laying hen, until we could build their proper one.  
And when we took them out, just a short while later, we found the first egg - still warm and covered with a little poop from being laid.  We put the chickens in their new coop, and my friend’s little brothers and sisters rushed in with them, laughing and celebrating their family’s new prospects.  
Ap log murgi hai?” I asked.  (You’re all chickens?)  
“Yes!”  was the delighted reply, the kids laughing partly at the question and partly at my funny Hindi.  
I’m so excited for my friend and really hope that this little business will give her great new opportunities and generate some very much-needed income.  And I feel so honored to be a part of the process of encouraging her to start all this.  Praise God!  
Tomorrow, I’ll leave with the new team to stay and work on the farm for a while.  Then we’ll be going to Homes of Hope in Fiji’s capital city, Suva, for a few days.  (Homes of Hope is a home where women coming out of sex trafficking can find healing and a new life.  My friend was there for a while.  You can check out their website.)  During these upcoming times, I won’t have internet access, so you might not hear from me until just before I return. 
 
If you’ve been reading these, I hope you’ve been blessed by these updates.  It means a lot to me to know that I have people thinking about me and praying for me at home.  Thank you!  God has allowed me some amazing experiences and lessons here, and I’m excited for more in the next two weeks.      
I love you all, and I look forward to seeing you (whether it be sooner or later), 
Brittany 

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Thank You, Nishrun


A part of my adventure today:  

     The windowless bus rumbles off again after its brief stop, and I take a quick survey of the situation.  Now I’m the only girl on board.  I’m also the only white person on board and half a foot taller than all the other passengers.  I guess that makes me the sore thumb.   
     That quick glance over my shoulder didn’t go unnoticed.  “Bula!” travels up the bus from somewhere behind me.  I turn around again.
     A young Fijian guy in a rugby jersey greets me with a huge smile, eager to make contact.  I stare blankly at him for a moment.  Sometimes I interact strangely with men.  
“Bula,” he makes another attempt, as cheerful as the first.
“Good morning.”  
Suddenly he’s in the seat behind me.  
“So, what are you doing on the bus today?”
“Visiting my friend.”  
“Ah.  Where does your friend live?”
“Near the primary school.”
“Ah.  So you’ve been on this bus before?”  
“Yes.”
“Ah.  Well...where are you from?”  
“America.”
“Ah.  Well...do you like Fiji?” 
“Yes, I like Fiji very much.”  
     We continue on like this, a little painfully (probably because I can be so painfully awkward), for a few more minutes when the bus halts at the primary school.  
     “Well...goodbye.”  I give the bus driver my dollar and jump out onto the road as the bus rattles onward, kicking clouds of brown dust up to the blue June sky.  
     All around are rolling sugar cane fields.  The silvery white tufts on top of the cane show that it’s harvest time and sway in the hot morning breeze, covering the land like feathers on a hen’s back.  The cane frames the entrance to my friend’s little road, what one might call a driveway.  
     As I’m walking up her hill, she comes rushing down.  Her long black braid flips back and forth as she hurries toward me, looking concerned and apologetic.  
     “Brittany - I’m so sorry I’m late!  I was just washing the dishes from breakfast and suddenly I saw the bus passing by!  Are you alright?  Ohhh, I’m so glad to see you!”  We finally reach each other and she gives me a huge hug.  
     I sit my backpack down on her living room floor and pull out a plastic grocery bag with several pairs of little shoes, pink and white velcro sandals, light-up sandals, blue and green flip-flops, all for a little girl.  Three little babies are crawling around, fussing, while a chicken pecks through to the kitchen then out the back door on the other side of the little tin house.  “Oh, these are perfect!  Aunty Laura is always such a blessing to us.  I thank God for her.”
     She pulls the tiny blue and green flip flops from the bag and then stows the rest neatly beside her family’s one bed.  “I’ll just quickly go wash these and then we can take them to the school for Nishrun, if you like.” 
     Mulomulo Muslim Primary School is a neat white building with a forest green tin roof, about the size of half a football field.  Each room has an open doorway with the title painted overhead in green.  Class 1, Class 2, Class 3, Urdu-Arabic, Kindergarten, Office.  Students peek out at us excitedly - boys in dark green collared shirts, girls in clean white headscarves - all smiling shyly through the slatted open windows.  We’re headed for the kindergarten.  The children inside perk up when they see us, and my friend quietly places the flip-flops outside the door.  The teacher inside takes notice, which isn’t hard with all her kids acting up, and invites us inside to sit.  
     Nishrun spots us immediately, and her face breaks into a smile.  She wears a dark green kurta and pants, her dark hair tied into two neat little pigtails.  A small white bandage is wrapped tightly around her tiny left foot, covering a wound from walking to school without shoes.      
     My friend talks with the teacher, a stately looking woman dressed from head to toe in black, about her little sister’s school progress.  So far, she’s behind by ten letters of the alphabet and all the other kids have stolen all her school supplies.  I can tell from the teacher’s posture and voice that she cares about her students, though I can’t understand her Hindi.  Later, on our walk back to the house, my friend will tell me that my suspicions are confirmed; the teacher really is very nice and wants Nishrun to learn.  “I need to work with her every day now,” my friend will say.  
     Now, though, 6-year-old Nishrun waits patiently, trying to stand straight and still while her progress is discussed.  When they finish, she hugs and kisses me.  “Thank you, aunty,” she whispers in my ear, then hugs and kisses her sister and hurries back to her seat on the mat. 
    No, thank you, Nishrun.  Thank you, Jesus, for this honor.    


[I wish I had a picture of Nishrun to share with you all, but I don't.  Instead I'll share this picture of Fiji's "Sleeping Giant."  Can you see him?]

Friday, June 3, 2011

Bathroom Rhymes::Toilet Paper Poetry

So...today I've not been feeling so great.  You'll probably be able to guess what's ailing me from the content below.  Maybe it was delirious fever, but it seemed like a good time for poetry.  I hope you enjoy it, particularly the Apex kids.  ;)

Vinegar tea, vinegar tea
Oh, how I'd love some vinegar tea
You may find it slightly smelly,
but when your bowels have turned to jelly
and your toilet's growing tired,
you'll see why I'm inspired - vinegar tea!

If, deep in India's jungle,
your intestines are a-jumble,
If on the coast of Fiji
and you're feeling fairly queasy,
I've got a fine solution
for your excrement dilution - vinegar tea!

Yes, gastroenteritis,
it really tries to fight us,
sends us to the bathroom more than we
have time for, are prepared for,
that's why I thank the Lord for
that sublime little cocktail - vinegar tea!



Thursday, June 2, 2011

A Very Special Love


     Today, I visited my first village in Fiji.  Sitara (another "intern") and I climbed onto a bus and headed out into the countryside.  The bus rattled along progressively deteriorating roads and crossed a precarious bridge, finally stopping beside a tiny primary school, the beginning of the community that was our destination.  We got off the bus and started walking up the dirt road where we were greeted by a smiling 20-year-old girl.  She hugged us warmly and walked us up another dirt road to her home. 
   
      She and her whole family live in small house around the size of my living room and dining room combined.  The walls are made of clay/plaster and the roof is sheets of tin that leak like crazy when it rains.  Her mother, stepfather, five siblings, herself, and her baby son are all stuffed in this little abode. Her stepfather is a sugarcane cutter, and she and her mother have their hands full with a household of kids.  Sometimes they go hungry.  And yet, her hospitality to us today was overwhelming.

     We sat on a little mat outside while she told me her story.  A number of very painful and destructive things have happened to her, which I shouldn't share for her security.  She tells me all this calmly, twirling a blade of grass in her fingers.  She smiles at the end of her story, and I can see her joy.  After such profound pain and abuse, she came to know Christ and returned home, with her baby.

     Now they both live with her mother and abusive stepfather.  Those in her community condemn her for her past and consider her crazy for her new bold faith.  She tries every day, she said, to serve her family and show them the love of Christ, how her life has changed.  "Yesterday, my horoscope came across the radio," she told us.  "It said, 'You will receive very special love from your life partner today.'  I looked around me:  no life partner, only screaming babies.  And later, my mom yelled at me and went to bed angry.  I thought, 'Oh, this must be the very special love my horoscope was talking about,'" she joked with a little laugh.  "But I know that God loves me, and that is all I need."  

     She shines so brightly.  I want them to see that I have changed, she said.  "Christ came to us, and though people hated Him, He still showed them love and their lives were changed.  How am I any different if I only hate those who hate me?," she explained as we walked by a house where a girl gave her a strange, patronizing glance.  "If I love them instead, maybe their hearts will be changed."         
         




[The countryside near the village.]




[A delicious lunch.]


And, for your viewing pleasure, the video below was taken while I was working on this blog.  :)






I thank God for all I'm learning here each day. 
Love you all, 
Brittany  

Sunday, May 29, 2011

Good Morning

I've posted a video here.  Hope you guys enjoy it (sorry that it's sideways for a while).  :)


Today's a little slower, and I should have semi-regular internet access for a while, so I got the chance to write a little:


Walking the two older girls in the family to school, it really hit me.  I’m in Fiji.  Men and women and children pass by wearing colorful cotton shirts and sulus (the breezy cotton skirts sported by men and women alike), greeting me with big, sincere smiles.  The sky is brilliant blue overhead and the water at the edge of our backyard is a similar color.  Flowers are bursting open in bushes along the roadside - bright pinks, yellows, blues.  A bright purple bus, no windows, rattles along the road ahead of me with only one passenger, going fast to get a little breeze going.  It’s only 8:40, but it’s already getting hot.  The sun is much more intense so near the equator, but it lights up everything and makes it that much more bright and beautiful.  Good morning.
The mosquitoes are also already buzzing, as at all hours.  “They’ll bite you less the longer you’re in Fiji,” Eden, the older girl, told me yesterday with an encouraging smile. 
  We arrive at the school, a plastered building that used to be a home.  Now, there are a few Fijian teachers who teach a home-school curriculum and let the kids work at their own pace.  The school’s chapel starts at 9:00, and kids run around, smiling, laughing, making mischief, tattling on one another.  Kids line up on benches for chapel underneath the school’s porch roof.  The sun in already beating down on the land, but in the shade the breeze is gentle.  
One of the teachers approaches the front of the little group.  She is Fijian, her bright flower-printed dress contrasting beautifully with her dark skin.  She is short, with curly hair close to her scalp and a light shawl gracing her shoulders.  She asks the children to bow their heads in prayer.  Heads drop and eyes close in unison.  
“Dear Lord, thank You for this day.  Thank You for the lives of the children, and the lives of the teachers, and the lives of the parents.  Thank You that we can come here for one more day and learn.  Please help us to do the tasks You set before us.  Please give us diligent hearts and let Your Spirit be on us as we work for You.”     
  Good morning.  

Bula!


Bula! ("hello and welcome" in Fijian)

     So, for those of you who may not know, yesterday morning at 5:30 AM, after 2 days of traveling, I arrived in the Fiji islands.  I'll be staying here for the next month with a really great family.  They work mostly in a rural area, building a community center, a sustainable community farm, and sharing in the love of God.  So, through some unexpected turns of events, I get the privilege of being their "intern" for part of the summer.
     This means I'll just be floating around helping out wherever help is needed.  For the past two days, this has meant being a nanny.  :)  The family has three beautiful daughters, and right now the youngest is sick.  So the two older girls and I have gotten to spend some quality time together while busy mom helps a sick baby get healthy again.  Today, we went with the short-term summer team to an island for a day of fun and then sent the summer team off for their return flight back to the US.  The island was beautiful, exactly like a postcard.  There were fish and reefs that looked like they belonged in Finding Nemo; the ocean was warm, maybe 70 degrees; and palm trees were everywhere.  I've posted some photos of our adventures today.
     While Fiji is a very beautiful place, it also has an underbelly with many problems.  Because tourism is the main economic activity (followed by sugarcane farming), the economy hasn't really diversified.  This means there's little room for a middle class to spring up.  So, there are the very rich in Fiji, which is what one usually thinks of - high class resorts, lounging on the beach, celebrity vacations.  But there are also the very poor.  Soon, I'll know a lot more about all this.

Love you all, and I hope to be in touch soon. :)
     

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

"Be not like dumb, driven cattle!"

I stayed up until 3 last night reading poetry, and I thought I should share some of the really good ones.  




Holy Sonnet V:  I Am a Little World Made Cunningly
John Donne 


I am a little world made cunningly
Of elements, and an angelic sprite;
But black sin hath betrayed to endless night
My worlds both parts, and (oh!) both parts must die.
You which beyond that heaven which was most high
Have found new spheres, and of new lands can write,
Pour new seas in mine eyes, that so I might
Drown my world with my weeping earnestly,
Or wash it if it must be drowned no more
But oh it must be burnt! alas the fire
Of lust and envy have burnt it heretofore,
And made it fouler: Let their flames retire,
And burn me, O Lord, with a fiery zeal
Of Thee and Thy house, which doth in eating heal. 



-----------


Holy Sonnet XV:  Wilt Thou Love God
John Donne


Wilt thou love God, as He thee? Then digest,
My Soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on
In heaven, doth make His Temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting, (for he ne'r begone)
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Co heir to His glory, and Sabbath's endless rest;
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy it again;
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he had made, and Satan stol'n, to unbind.
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more. 



----------


A Psalm of Life
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 


Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.