Spicy Ramen

11 Feb 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Food, Friends, God, Mexico, Remember, Thanksgiving

I bought Ramen tonight,

which is odd because there’s not much appealing about Ramen,

except maybe the price.

But I wanted it, so 97 cents bought me three packs of Just Add Water Ramen.

I microwaved one bowl and took two bites,

but something was missing;

something quite important was missing from my late dinner.

Because it’s two years ago now, Manuel and Tere slept at the orphanage,

and Karen, Manuelito, Ana, little Beki and I?

We stayed home.

The cousins came over and we locked the door tight, like Hermana Tere said,

and we pulled kitchen chairs around to the TV,

and we watched Inception until 3am,

and we ate Ramen.

It’s the same pack, the same styrofoam bowl and Fill to Here water line,

but this is Mexico and we value our flavor,

savor our spice.

And we sat around the TV slurping soggy noodles, red Salsa Valentina swirling together

with packet-flavored chicken broth.

That Ramen was spicy.

And tonight I sat at my desk and picked at noodles that lacked spice,

really lacked spice.

The Roommate was going downstairs, and I followed her there,

still picking my noodles because

I’m hungry.

And down the hall, through the Tunnel, people are eating here,

people are ordering here in the Commons,

and I smelled every single hot sauce they had,

and I ended up dumping Chipotle Tabasco sauce all over my noodles,

which were quickly getting cold.

And that fixed the problem, and I slurped them right down,

and it felt so familiar because my mouth burned and my nose ran,

and it was just like that late night in Mexico.

And a preached this week said God has a purpose in everything,

but sometimes it’s hard to imagine,

hard to comprehend,

that He puts meaning, that He has deep purpose,

in a night spent eating spicy Ramen and watching Inception,

while the dogs across the street barked

and someone, somewhere, set off a firework.

But every time I get close to wondering,

I realize that it’s not my job to question His decisions,

His grace, His gifts.

So I ate my chipotle Ramen, and I thought about Mexico,

and I thanked Him for time

relationships,

lessons,

gifts,

that He’s given me.

~Natalia

Dependence

06 Feb 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, God, Mexico, Prayer

Living in Mexico

for three months

in early 2011,

I spent days at the Casa Hogar

and

nights at Manuel and Tere’s.

There were times that I was tired,

grumpy, frustrated, impatient, sad, hurt.

But

those aren’t really the times I remember.

I remember so many more times,

so many more days,

that God put me in the right place,

lead me to say the right thing,

strengthened my hands for the right task,

and it felt so right

to glorify Him that way.

I’ve been missing that feeling lately.

Missing the dependence on God while I was there,

because I knew that without Him,

I didn’t have a clue what to do,

and I wasn’t going to get anywhere

or do anything well.

I’ve lost that feeling

and have been pretty self-sufficient lately.

I mean, I know that I need Him

and I can’t live, breathe, love, serve

without Him.

But I forget that a lot because most of the stuff I do,

well, it feels like I can handle it on my own.

But I’ve tasted what it’s like

to live so dependent on a Teacher who guides all,

and I want to go back to that.

I want to wake up every morning and beg Him

to show me what to do

to prepare me to do what He’d have me do.

I want to live like that again.

And it starts with a prayer

for dependence on Him

and I think that’s a prayer

that He’ll answer.

~Natalia

Help Me Pray

04 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Church, Family, Prayer

I sent an email to my mexican family;

Manuel and Tere and their five children,

and the 40 hearts living at the Casa Hogar.

It takes longer for me to type Spanish that it does English,

but it’s not too bad.

It’s been a disgracefully long time since I wrote to them,

and I apologized for that.

I wished them a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

and updated them on my family here,

and asked about the family there.

I told them we loved them, missed them,

look forward to seeing them next time…

whenever that is.

At the very end, I asked what we can help them to pray for.

And blink, memory’s a strong thing sometimes,

and there’s a prayer time on Sunday morning, kneeling on thin blue carpet.

Pray alone, pray with partners: Hermana Tere doesn’t just say “pray for”,

she says Help me pray.

Help me pray for this child,

help me pray for this situation,

help me pray, help me pray.

It’s a partnership because we’re on our knees next to each other,

and it’s a partnership because help me means we’re in this together.

You and I, we’re carrying this heart to Christ.

Between the two of us,

we’re laying this situation down at the foot of the Cross.

Help me pray is an invitation to join,

to be a part of this conversation with the Creator of the World.

And once, twice, three times I heard her say it,

but Help me pray is lodged tight in my heart,

and it doesn’t take much digging to uncover memories

emblazoned on a soul.

A reminder, a word, a call to prayer in another church,

another country,

another language,

and I’m kneeling at a pew,

when she says, Help me pray.

~Natalia

Christmas Snapshot

25 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Chicago, Christmas, Family, Food, Friends, God, Happiness, Love, Mexico, Sovereign

It’s been four years since we were in this city, this state, this home, for Christmas, but if Christmas is His incarnation, redemption born in a stable, then it’s not just a day we’re commemorating; it’s a way of life. A way of life that breathes grace and mercy, wears redeemed like a cloak, and leaves God’s love deep in everything we touch, do, say.

December 25th is one day, one very special day, but it’s not so much different from any other day, because this day and those days God is truth, God is love, and God is just, and Jesus is the perfect redeemer we’re drowning without. The special of today is not that He’s more Him today than any other; the special of this day is that today we’re thinking about it.

Today just as any other this is a building of six separated, but the lines swirl unreadable between neighbors and friends, between friends and family, and there are four breakfast casseroles here. Our ceiling is their floor, all day, every day, but today, we’re all sitting around one table, please pass the mango juice, and can you even imagine the weaving of life strings in this room?

Because I’ve got a story and upstairs has a story, across the hall, too. My story is me and yours is you, but there’s one God who holds all stories in the palm of His grand Story. And I know He’s wise, I know He’s sovereign, because He’s winding each story together and I’ll never quite understand. I’ll never quite understand how story meeting story means there’s wise words to soothe nervous hearts, little hands ready to play together, and six units of family wound together tight just when we need it.

December 25th is a snapshot of a year; close your eyes, I bet you can tell me where you were last 12/25, and the one before and before, well into years behind. True for you and true for me and turn around, last year today the mexican sun was hot and white bright through the VIPS window. And it’s funny because it really all started in this mexican diner chain; Mexico City in 2008, I’d been in Mexico four hours and really didn’t know what I had ordered.

Last year little family squinting in the sun in a downtown Mexico diner, at least we all know what we ordered. This year there’s snow finally, finally, dusting the Chicago streets outside, and I’m peeling dinner potatoes when Mom says call Mexico.

I always hesitate, and I’m really not sure why, but I call the Casa Hogar and Christmas has traditions, they’re all watching movies. But the voice on the other end rings happy, hits deep in my heart. Wise woman, woman whose love binds tight and holds strong. And we’re trading words over this Skype call; asking questions, murmuring assent and understanding, soaking up details because it’s been a long time and it’ll be longer until we’re face to face.

And then Rubi’s on the line and I suddenly realize that different countries, schools, families, skin tones really don’t matter because three years running friendship, Rubi was in my class at school in Mexico. And there’s a grip, a trust settling in my heart, because I trust Him to do well, and I trust Him to do right, and these are not friendships I have to fight to keep a grasp on, these are gifts He’s given because He is gracious.

And later, later, the day’s winding down but my phone is buzzing and cousins are friends, too, and the cousin-sister sends me back to Skype, once more. And it’s funny because I can hear them maybe a little, but they can’t hear me. But a picture is worth a thousand words and a video chat is worth more; words or no words. The other side of the country is 4×6 inches on my computer screen and I’m waving and blowing kisses to family I adore.

And Christmas is a day just like any other, and God is God every hour always, but pause, celebrate: Christmas is so very special, too.

~Natalia

This, His Will

16 Nov 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, God, Grow, Kiddos, Longing, Mexico, Purpose, Sovereign, Teach

The following is the second part of my application to Moody’s Elementary Education program. The first part is entitled Why I’ll Teach.

The story of Casa Hogar, and the profound impact this orphanage has had on virtually every aspect of my life can hardly be overstated. I believe that God will continue to weave the Casa Hogar part of my tapestry, my story, for many years to come. Living with my family in central Mexico during my senior year of high school, we met and promptly fell in love with the children and directors of the Casa Hogar. Anywhere between 30 and 50 children who, for reasons as varied as the child, cannot live with their families. Abuse, neglect, abandon: these young hearts will forever bear the scars of the evil in this world. An evil they did not instigate and yet have no defenses against.

While no longer living in Mexico, my family maintained contact with the Casa Hogar, and with Manuel and Tere, the middle-aged couple entrusted with the care of these children. We visit when we can, a couple of weeks once a year devoted to sharing life with these precious individuals in Mexico. My first trip completely solo, July 2012 slipped by with the blink of an eye as I lived in Manuel and Tere’s home, spending almost every waking hour at the orphanage.

Even then, scant weeks ago, I clung to my children’s ministry title. I knew I loved working with children. I knew I would work with them. The pull of teaching, of education, tightened around me, but I fought; my heart swells and breaks alongside every broken hearted child whose hurt leaks into my own story, but surely I can’t teach, right?

My plane hasn’t been in Mexico for two hours when Tere pulls up the subject of English classes. You know English, she says with a smile as children’s voices ring out across the orphanage’s gravel courtyard. Will you teach English classes for these three weeks that you are here? I glance out the window, watching precious young ones zip past on their hand-me-down bikes, and then turn back to her.

Yes, I will teach them English classes.

Roughly mimicking techniques I’ve seen before, wracking my brain to remember how my own mother taught these children when she tutored them, I stumble my way through our English classes. The littlest students nail down their colors and basic greetings, while the older children, jr. high students by their own right, work through verb tenses and lists of verbs that we work together to create. We all make it through the three weeks, and I’m happy with the results of our time together, but something is gnawing inside me.

A lurking wondering, a gentle longing. I know what it is, but I’m scared to approach the question head on. Yet the thought will not go away, and finally, back in the United States, I am forced to deal with my unease head on: I’m a children’s ministry major, but my brief stint in the classroom in Mexico have stirred something in me.

I want to know how to teach. I want to learn how best to deal with a rowdy classroom. I want to understand how a young mind learns, what is the best way to explain a topic, how to structure a lesson plan.

Once I start thinking about it, I find I can’t stop. The tapestry grows and develops, and God gently and firmly continues to reveal to me my own heart. My own desire to teach. Clinging to His assurance that what I’m doing is right, that His faithfulness continues to the end of time, I take first one step towards elementary education, then another, my heart filling with His joy and His peace with every confirmation of this, His will.

~Natalia

Has My Heart

10 Oct 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Chicago, Longing, Mexico, Miss, Remember, Spanish

I’ve been putting it off rather a long time, actually. I think about it frequently, but it’s been easy to stuff it down a little. I’ve told you- between classes and Missions Conference and work and friendships, I’ve had other things to fill my mind.

But with every activity that I pour myself into, with every task I jump on, every experience I relish, something stops me, grabs me, and puts me right back where I was.

Where I was thinking about Mexico.

Because it would seem that every single thing I do, every place I go, is brimming with reminders.

There’s a little boy I coach, chubby seven-year old with a swimsuit just a tad too big for him. There’s nothing Mexican about this little one. But he has a story to tell and I lean down, squatting to his level on the white tiled pool deck. And he tells me his story, and I hear him and I’m listening, but my heart is somewhere else entirely.

Because the way he blinks, the nervous little twitch of a blink that lasts too long and happens too frequently, has taken me right back. Right back to a little boy, ten years old with dark skin and curly black hair cropped close. A little boy just arrived, barely a month at the Casa Hogar.

It’s nervous thing, a habit learned and ingrained, who knows where from. Practice good or bad, the blink, with the accompanying nose twitch, is a part of him, and as his little face swims in my memory, it’s inextricably bound to this. This blink, nose twitch. This habit.

9pm on a weeknight, and I’m almost back to campus. Work two hours, commute almost an hour each way. I’ve spent some quality time on the train, and I’m never bored. My favorite stop is the one across from the community college. There are several in this city, and I’m not sure what sets this school apart. But the school sets this train stop apart by virtue of its mere proximity.

Metal doors lurch open, students board, doors shut haltingly, and we’re on our way again. I’m sitting in the front section of the car, and to my increasingly heightening interest three Hispanics take the seats across the aisle from me. I’m white and they’re not and I’m not supposed to understand what they say, but I do.

They’re talking about where they live and housing and neighborhoods and jobs both current and previous, but I could honestly care less about the topic; that’s not what I’m listening to, anyway. I’m unashamedly eavesdropping, and each piece of Spanish slang, each familiar mannerism, each markedly mexican trait drives deep into my heart.

Because I’ve been in hundreds of conversations, with countless individuals. Manuel and Tere’s home, the car, the office, the church, the kitchen, Casa Hogar, the school, outside; we’ve been places and said things and exchanged words and the same trademark communication quirks thread throughout mexican culture.

The laugh, the sigh, the way words are picked up and laid back down again, the topics, the exclamations.

I’m silly because I’m sitting alone on the el, hardly suppressing my grin, as the Spanish language washes over me. But then it’s time to switch trains, stand on the platform and wait for the next train, and I have to get off. And I stand in the chilly fall air and the longing for Mexico, to be immersed once more in a place where that language, those jokes and interjections, fill my head and my heart constantly; that longing gnaws at me.

There’s more, too.

If I kept a list, I could tell you a hundred different things. More than one hundred reminders of the country, the city, the family, the culture, that holds my heart.

Mexico has my heart and will keep my heart.

And lately, it’s had a fair portion of my mind, too

~Natalia

Why I’ll Teach

20 Sep 2012 4 Comments

by nataliaria in Beauty, Casa Hogar, Church, God, Grow, Kiddos, Mexico, Moody Bible Institute, Swimming, Teach, Writing

I wrote the following last night, as a part of my application to the Elementary Education program at Moody.

Twelve years old, and it’s Sunday morning. From where I’m sitting in this basement sanctuary, I can see the front; the worship team, the pastor. I can see them, but they’re not all I see. Two rows up, three rows over, even to the very end of the sanctuary, I catch glimpses of the children of the church. Little ones, younger ones, that I’ve known for weeks, months, years. Little ones whose hearts and minds I’ve come to know and love.

An hour later, the service is over and I’m not in the aisle anymore, not seated on the blue padded chair anymore. I’m in the church lobby, a chubby toddler named Emma balanced on my young adolescent hip, her older sister, a lean kindergartener, clutching my hand.

Individuals my age are hard to come by in this church body, but that’s okay; I look up to the college students, relishing the time they spend investing in my life, and I spend my after-church community time where I most want to be: in the children’s classrooms. The adults in my life, starting with my parents, are showing me how to love, how to teach, how to train a heart, and I’m knee-deep in the practical application of the life lessons I’m soaking up from them.

I’m in the Sunday school room, playing and interacting as the children wait for their parents to come collect them. Balanced on a child sized chair, I listen to Isabelle tell me about her craft project, her frizzy braids bobbing up and down in her excitement. A pull on my hand and Elijah fights to capture my attention, his four-year-old cowlick sticking up rather comically from the top of his head. All around me, little ones, precious young ones, are growing and living and learning, and I’m head over heels in love with their hearts, their lives.

Twelve years old and people ask me what I’ll do when I grow up. I don’t know exactly, but something with kids, I tell them. I know it’ll be something with kids.

Years have passed, I may be older now, but my answer has not changed; something with kids. I attend Moody Bible Institute and list myself as a children’s ministry major; there are young ones, growing and developing hearts and minds, all over the world, and when I finish school, I’m going to minister to them. Minister to these children because that’s what I’ve felt called to all my life. That’s what has brought me the greatest joy. I know what I’ll do.

But slowly, another thought begins to take shape. An idea, a vague conviction, that’s been pulling at the back of my consciousness for years now.

The majority of the young ones I interact with daily are no longer church-raised children, but rather young individuals that I coach on the youth swim team, or fatherless children at an orphanage in central Mexico. Some of them have the Holy Spirit working in their hearts, some of them don’t, but they are still growing, still learning. Jesus in their hearts or not, someone is still teaching these children, training their minds, molding the way they think about the world, the other souls they interact with daily; molding the very way they see their Creator.

I’m still deeply entrenched in their lives and stories, I still love them with a love I now recognize only the Lord could give, but something pulls at my heart. These children, Christian or not, need someone to teach them. Their schools are teaching them facts and information, but they’re also teaching them so much more.

Day in, day out, the precious ones here are learning, learning because they are always watching. Watching teachers, watching role models, watching peers. They’re picking up on worldviews that come naturally; humanistic, individualistic ways of thinking, of living. They don’t know the names of the beliefs that they’re subconsciously making their own, but what is being taught explicitly and implicitly in their schools, whether Christian or otherwise, is affecting the way they see the world, the way they see everything.

There’s deep beauty in their own hearts. I didn’t know the word for it when I was 12, but I do now; it’s the image of God. These precious, God-created children bear the image of God in them. It’s what makes them, makes all individuals, beautiful and at the same time deeply tragic. Tragic because this image we bear is a scarred, marred image.

We’re fallen and need for the Redeemer to heal our hearts, to heal the way we think and see.

Does the way children are being taught the world over teach them to see the Redeemer? To see Him in their peers? In the creation we’re utterly surrounded by? In themselves?

I’m fallen and marred, too. I don’t always see the beauty, the Creator, as I should, but part of being a Redeemer is that He chooses to use individuals who are broken, who are marred, and yet who have chosen to serve Him. He chose me, I chose Him, and I choose education. Because these children, these students, need someone to show them the image of the One who made them; someone to show them, and to teach them to see Him everywhere.

~Natalia

This Was Summer {The End for Now}

21 Aug 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Camping, Casa Hogar, Family, Friends, Kiddos, Little Sisters, Mexico, Photos, Summer, This is Summer, Travel, Wedding


Ballet Recital


Camping


Grandparents in Town


Wow Camp (photo by Tommy Ekstrand)


Weddings


Cousins in Town


Mexico


Vacation Bible School


Trip to Mancelona


Friends, Family, Neighbors

and so much more.

My summer’s over, but it was a wonderful adventure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way!

~Natalia

Made This Tapestry

09 Aug 2012 2 Comments

by nataliaria in Beauty, Casa Hogar, College, God, Grow, Love, Mexico, Moody Bible Institute, Sovereign, Summer, Teach, Trust

I’ve talked about the tapestry of life. I’ve written about the rich, thick rug that is the life you and I lead. I’ve battled to unwind the fabric, impatiently tugging in the same threads over and over again, hoping desperately that I’ve somehow grabbed hold of the one string that will cause the whole woven mass to fall to pieces. To unroll and unwind and become once more the individuals threads that I hope against hope would be easier to decipher.

I’ve told you about the paint. Not an elegant portrait, not even a decipherable image, but the splotches and splatters of a real life. There are no color by numbers in this life, and the paint runs freely and eagerly all over the place. The red’s running in streaks through the green, the green is tinged yellow, the yellow’s dripping everywhere, and there’s a pool of blue at my feet.

I can’t unwind the tapestry, and sometimes I can’t make heads or tails of the painting. So very often, I’m careening through life, clinging fruitlessly to what I can get my hands on, and sending paint spraying with every step I take.

I don’t get it and I’m too close, too involved, to be able to step back and see the beauty in the twisted threads, in the running, oozing paint.

But sometimes, every now and again, I do see. A thread, a colored string in the tapestry of my life, catches my eyes, and I can follow it. I step back and I can suddenly see how one single thread runs across the whole. I can see where it twisted around to form a flower, where it ducked and turned and mixed with other threads, temporarily lost among the jumble, to form something more beautiful than it ever could have on its own.

But a glimpse is just that- quick, short, instant. And suddenly, I’ve lost the thread and all I can see is the jumble, the twist, the in and out, once more.

But the thread is still there.

In fifth grade and completely decided: I’m going to Moody Bible Institute. And, while I’m there, I think I’ll major in Elementary Education. I’ll learn to teach, to train, learn to be like so many who have taught me.

Then, suddenly, I’m a senior in high school and the application I’m filling out online lists me not as an El Ed, a future teacher, but rather as a linguistics major. Years have passed and I have somehow convinced myself that I’m not a teacher.

I could never teach; I’m sure it’s hard and tiring, and think of all the requirements and classes to take before I even begin; I can’t do that.

But there’s something different, too. The thread doesn’t stop, it flips and rolls and loops under another and it’s spring 2010, and eight years of plans skid to a halt. I’m not going to Moody, not this fall anyway. My after-college plans are unformed at best, completely nonexistent at their worst, and I slowly begin to realize that a career in linguistics, Bible translation, is not where my heart lies.

Children’s Ministry it’ll be now. I’m nineteen years old and have applied once more to the Moody Bible Institute. January, February, March 2011 pass, and I’m deeply embedded in my life in Mexico, my heart completely wrapped around the Casa Hogar.

I’ll not apply a third time, and I find myself planning, imagining, what it would look like to not attend Moody, to stay in Mexico. To work, to help, to love at the Casa Hogar.

But the Moody thread’s a long one and there’s a scanned letter in my Facebook inbox. We are excited to inform you…

My world tips violently and I’m completely doused in paint. Casa Hogar and church and family and Moody are so mixed together, I’m not sure what I’m feeling, and my eyes blur with hot tears as I read the full extent of the acceptance letter.

One school year down. May 2012, school ends and I’m reeling. The tapestry is fully intact, the painting’s just as vivid, just as intricate as ever, but for months I’ve been too busy to see it. Too busy to marvel at the beauty. Almost too busy to take comfort in the fact that I don’t get it, I don’t understand how the paint swirls, or why the threads knot and loop, but there is Someone who does.

Summer flows out of school, out of last year, out of the rest of my life; it’s the same tapestry. The same story. The same me. But I’m growing and learning, too. I’m jumping from puddle to puddle, splashing paint left and right, skipping and hopping as the thread continues to loop and twist, a never-ending story of God growing me, stretching me.

And then suddenly, I looked up and things looked familiar. I wiped the paint off my feet and shuffled around and realized I’m right where I was ten years ago. I’m going to Moody. In fact, I’m moving back to campus in just a little more than a week. And while I’m there, I think I’ll major in Elementary Education.

It’s funny, the way God works life, works hearts, works sovereignty. I’m not decided yet, I’m standing in front of the mountain, the skyscraper, trying to hold onto anything firm, anything steady. Because it’s a long climb and you’re right, I’m scared. But thread doesn’t stop and the colors of this painting, the hues of this next step in my life, are brilliant.

I might lose sight of the thread, left standing confused in front of the tapestry. And it won’t be long before I’m dripping paint, but Someone much bigger, much wiser, much grander than me made this tapestry, painted this picture, and I trust Him.

~Natalia

Watching Dinner

28 Jul 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Casa Hogar, Family, Food, Hurt, Love, Sovereign

Dinner’s been served, and I’m not in the kitchen anymore. I don’t know why, actually. Usually, after serving the food, I stay behind the long, white tile counter. I lean my elbows on the high counter and watch the meal unfold.

But not right now. Now I’m just outside of the reach of the countertop, leaning against the pale green wall of the dining room. I’m still watching, still listening, I’m just not in the kitchen.

Two tables over, directly across from me, she sits silently. She dutifully eats her food, wordlessly scraping arroz con leche out of the beige dish in front of her. I watch her, and I’m not the only one, but she avoids my gaze, her dark eyes fixed vacantly on the bowl.

The scraping of metal spoons on hard plastic gradually diminishes, and the rush and murmur of conversation begins to grow. Dinner is done, but we’re still here in the dining room. Still standing, still sitting, still here.

Suddenly, a voice to my right calls our attention. Hermana Tere steps out from behind the counter, moves into the open space between the sliding door and the five long tables. She begins talking, but my eyes remain riveted on the girl across from me.

Hermana Tere continues. She’s talking about the same girl I watch. Tells the littles ones that the girl’s received some bad news, that she’s hurting, she’s sad. My eyes flick briefly to Hermana Tere, then back to the girl. Head down, tears glisten in a wet path down her dark cheeks. I can’t see her eyes, but I know they are red; I saw them this morning.

Hermana Tere’s words are the only sound heard in the kitchen. That and the soft sniff of a girl who’s cried much that day. In front of the room, Hermana Tere reminds us what we are. We are a family. We are a support. We love each other and encourage each other. Hurt for each other and pray for each other.

Soon, she’s done talking, and slowly, the dining room begins to move. First one, then another, then a whole table, stands up to make their way over to the girl. The room is filled with the scraping sound of chairs being pushed back across tiled floor.

Little ones stand on tiptoe to wrap their arms around her neck, and older ones, her siblings and friends, lean down to where she is seated. Hug her. Whisper words of encouragement. Tell her they love her. Build her up. Wrap her even tighter in the blanket of God’s love and sovereignty.

A line forms, and I’m not leaning against the wall anymore, I’m in line. Beki’s in front of me, and ten more are in front of her, with that many and more behind us.

After my turn, my turn to show love, support, family, I slide into the empty seat next to her. Hermano Manuel’s speaking now, the kitchen once again hushed to stillness. He speaks, then Rubí joins him in front of the gathered group, the gathered family. We’re going to sing a hymn, he explains. God Doesn’t Make Mistakes, it’s called. You all know it, right?

And we sing. Next to me, she sits, eyes lifted now. Watching. Every so often, a blink sends tears overflowing over lids and other wet path is traced down her cheeks.

Blink, drip, slide.

Tear. Cry. Sing.

God Doesn’t Make Mistakes.

~Natalia

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