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

2012

01 Jan 2013 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Africa, Blogging, Faithful, Family, Friends, God, Grace, Grow, Mexico, Provide, Remember, Summer

I’m determined to write a 2012 recap post. I love turning around to catch a glimpse of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what I learned. Through the hundreds of posts I’ve written over the past year, I can dig deep into what He’s already done; get my bearings, and step confidently into what He’s yet to do, because past give reason for present, and faithful then can’t be anything other than faithful now, faithful to come.

There’s a thread of redemption story, of God’s character and grace, winding throughout 2012, and there’s a personal story,too. This blog is a personal account of my life, my heart, and my story is nestled small in the grand narrative of God saves. And that’s what I want to see when I look back at 2012. When days are lined up alongside longer days, and months are tipped end to end in line, I want Him to shine bold amidst the snapshots of life that make up this blog.

I started 2012 in Mexico, ringing in the New Year with the hearts that I call family. Birthday, Christmas, New Years; I soaked in every moment I could, but the cold came every night and I laid in bed in my sweatshirt, blankets piled on top of me, and dread of school settled heavy and tight in my stomach.

A semester that I look back on as rocky, unsure, stressed, I landed hard on God’s gentle grace at every fall, and God’s provision rocked me to the core. Three months of stress culminated in a two weeks in Kenya, during spring break. The western world, the world that I’ve spent my life spinning through, is clean and neat and suffering and death sweeps easily under the rug.

Not so in Africa. There is no rug in Africa and sickness and death is the backdrop of millions. Nine months since my return to this country, and I still don’t know why I went to Africa; man places a question mark on I don’t understand, but God’s will is unmistakable in hindsight and He put Africa in my heart, and maybe someday He’ll tell me why.

The spring semester ended like a marathon, and the shroud of school life stayed thick around me for a while after. School breaks are a funny thing because they inevitably come after days, weeks, months, of fast-paced academics. Go, go, go turned to wait, relax, enjoy in the blink of an eye and I hesitated for a moment, shuffling back and forth, swirling uncertain between a long semester and a wonderful summer.

But life waits for no one and summer 2012 vaulted itself into action with a running start. Weddings, Grandparents, WOW camp, Michigan, cousins, Mexico and marched together, one long train of events created their own routine, and I landed back at school in August excited for another semester.

God’s not more real this semester than last, but He’s close, and we’ve gone back and forth. He knows words before I speak them, whisper them, yell them, and His response pours grace, mercy, healing on a heart that He holds always. Friendships developing in the spring found new depth, and He continued to grow me into who He says I am.

There’s much more than I could say, there’s always more that could be said. But I’ll stop now because I’m not ending; a year is a continuation, not beginning to The End, and there’s not resolution because God’s still working.

I still alternately fight against grace and lying powerless and grateful against its incomprehensible redemption. I still shrug off Child of God, forgetting that the grace-work of my salvation is not a blanket for cold days, but a heart-deep stamp that changes everything I do. I’m still unsure, sometimes stumbling where I wish I was stepping, and falling where I thought I’d not.

2012 was grace and mercy and learning, and 2013 will be, too. Because faithful then is faithful now, and changing dates don’t change a thing to change to character and heart of the God who’s been God since time began.

~Natalia

Snow

27 Dec 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in Beauty, God, Longing, Love, Mexico, Miss, Questions, Spanish, Weather

There’s snow falling outside. Well, actually, it’s stopped falling for the moment. But it was before and I stood in the kitchen and watched the white specks swirl past the window. Kitchen faces the brick wall of someone else’s world, but in between this home and that home, snow flakes fill the open air.

I drove to work. Drove carefully, carefully, but I’m worried about being late and I should have wiped the snow off the car windows before I left. I can see what I need to see, visibility’s not incredible right now, anyway. And there’s a thin heap of snow balanced on my window, and I’m only rolling fifteen miles an hour, surely nothing can go wrong. But you never know and I roll down the window, watching snow pack together in a heap, and the air is cold and flakes swing gently into the car, landing soft on my face, my hair. And the light is green and the window’s still rolling down and the tiny snow bank on the outside of the window collapses into the car, and I’m driving up the street with a pile of frozen white on my arm.

It kept snowing while I was at work, too, and the parking lot’s near empty by the time I come back out. There’s a snow scraper in the car and I’m careful to use it, but I almost forget to clear the snow off my window again, because I can hear Taylor Swift on the radio inside the car, and I’m thinking about Mexico again.

And the car wiggles on the way around the corner, but I’m driving so very slowly and it’s more fun than scary, really. I park in the garage, because I think that’s what the mother would have prescribed, but I don’t like going in the back door, so I walk around to the front. Walk straight up the middle of the alley, and it’s so still that I can hear the snow packing together under my boots. A soft, straining, settling sound. And the snow’s still falling gentle and wet on my head and coat and it’s settling on everything it can touch.

And before I shuffled the car into the garage, before I pulled around the corner to the street I’ve grown up on, there’s a stop sign on the corner, and snow is everywhere and snow can be so much. Because glance up, look around: snow is beautiful. Stunning, breathtaking wonder on every surface that it can get its sticky grip on. But there are other words with snow, too; like dangerous and wet and slippery and cold. And there’s an inches-thick white layer on everything in sight, but can you even tell what’s underneath? Because snow can be deceptive, tricky, disillusioned, too.

And God’s put beauty in this world, and He’s shattering this night with the silent wonder of snow falling, and a strange guilt starts to creep in, because I should be appreciating all this. And I am, actually. I really do love the snow, and I do breathe in tight when white-laden branches catch my eye; bright ice reflecting soft yellow street light glow. But I answered my mother’s phone because she was wrist-deep in dish water and the other end speaks Spanish and I forgot to not, and one time Hermana Tere asked me about snow.

And Mexico missing’s not always so close by, and the ache of longing softens with distraction. But Skype conversation at midnight says unless you do what you love, you will never be happy and there was more, too, but there’s snow outside and tightness in my heart because I know what I love and I know where I love, but snow isn’t just snow, and it will never be that easy, will it?

~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

I’d Still Ride a Bus in Mexico

12 Dec 2012 2 Comments

by nataliaria in Family, Mexico, Remember, Travel

I’ve told you before about the time I almost drove away into the sunset by myself in a dilapidated van in central Mexico. It’s a good story, an exciting one, and it started right outside the bus station in my Mexican home city.

There’s another adventure, occurring more than a year before my solo driving bus station shenanigans. This adventure occurring on the way to the very bus station that appears to have caused so much drama in my Mexican life.

In August 2009, my brother, father, and I attended a conference in Mexico City. This scholarly event was a sort of “kick-off” for the individuals who, like my father, had received Fulbright scholarships to study and work in universities all across Mexico.
fulbright1
Father, myself, and Stevy at a Fulbright formal reception

We dressed up, attended receptions and conference meetings, explored Mexico City and the surrounding area, and got our first taste (rather more of a gulp, if you ask me) of life in Mexico. It occurs to me right now that one of the joys of writing is remembering, and I have just remembered that I was plagued at the time with two sprained rib muscles and the remains of a light case of pneumonia. Clearly, I survived both the conference and accompanying tourism without any lasting effect on my health and wellbeing.
teotihuacan1
Stevy climbed Teotihuacan. I remained at the bottom and puffed on a pneumonia-drug-filled inhaler.

The conference complete, my father, brother and I took a taxi through the crazy, vibrant, gloriously varied streets of Mexico City to the bus station. My father purchased tickets and we boarded a bus to the city that we would call home for the next nine months, and for long after that.

The bus was a rather luxurious affair with wide seats, TVs located intermittently down the aisle, and a bathroom in the back. Stevy and I sat next to each other, and our father sat in front of us. We were tired from an intense conference experience and settled into the ride listening to our iPods, sleeping (ahem, Dad), and watching the Mexican country roll by the huge windows that spanned both sides of the bus.

I was dozing comfortably between sleep and window watching, my headphones tucked into my pocket for the moment, when a sound like a gunshot went off and several people towards the back of the bus screamed. My heart pounding, I whipped around in my seat, only to see our middle-aged bus-mates huddled low in their seats, ducking salt and pepper heads below the window. Turning back around, I followed their example and sunk low in my seat, dragging my brother down, as well.

Moments passed and my heart pounded fast and hard. My Spanish was frustratingly limited, but somehow we came to understand that the sound was caused not by a gun, as many had suspected, but rather a rock striking one of the vast windows. The window had shattered, cracking into thousands of tiny pieces.

Still more than an hour from our destination, the bus driver had to stop, but we found ourselves on one of central Mexico’s many two-lane, two-way highways; cars zipping past at high-speed in the opposite direction on one side, and a steep mountain descent on the other side.

Finally, after what seemed like decades, the bus driver pulled off the highway and several of the men on the vehicle descended to assess the situation. The window, while spiderwebbed with cracks, was still mostly help together, but threatened to fall at any moment. The men removed the shattered window from its frame, covering the resulting gaping hole with the window curtains and some tape.
bus1

There was not much more that could be done, and everyone trooped back onto the bus to complete our journey. Dad, Stevy and I packed together in two seats, affording the gentleman who had been sitting by the broken window and clean, safe seat. And so it was that we rolled into the city that I’ve come to adore as my second home wedged three bodies where two should go, the wind whipping loudly through a broken window pane, and hearts still racing just a little from the excitement of it all.
cityhome1
Nighttime view of our mexican home.

~Natalia

Supposed to Be

17 Nov 2012 1 Comment

by nataliaria in Chicago, Christmas, Friends, God, Kiddos, Mexico, Miss, Sovereign, Spanish

Wednesday morning, maybe even Tuesday night, homework rules my mind. Empty time loaded with assignments, trudging through to-do lists both academic and otherwise. Sitting in class, eating, on the train, I can’t truly focus because a brain that’s spent every waking hour planning my next move, next assignment, doesn’t just stop on command.

Chapel, class, meals, and sitting. I shouldn’t be sitting anyway, no doubt. Reeling, reeling: what’s next? What are my goals for this morning, tonight, before Sunday?

Work and outside commitments, time for conversation with friends, too- Heaven forbid I’m a total hermit. Mind’s going, going, and I’m balancing the tightrope between just about making it, and crashing through deadlines, last-minute scrambling to get it together.

But Kat’s downtown for the morning and I’m gloriously free. Mind says no; I’ll not think about to-do, about due by Monday, due by Monday, due by Tuesday. Turn that off and enjoy time with a friend God placed in my life before I can remember and who He’s determined to keep in my life. I don’t always recognize a great gift when He’s dropped it into my story, and I don’t see immediately how truly wonderful Kat time is, until hours in.

Lunch on the other side, the lake side, of Michigan Avenue, and maybe Kat’ll head back to the suburbs; back to the school she calls home. But they’re setting up for the Christmas Light parade and more and more people are filling the slick city sidewalk and no, what if you stayed just a bit longer?

So back to the room and sitting on my bed, squares of light warm and clean on the floor, on the wall. She reads, I write, and God whispers normal and breathes peace over the pair. There’s a bond of time and trust between us and it’s easy and comfortable to sit and do homework together. Country music (she taught me to like it) hums out of my computer and we work, swapping occasional stories as the sun moves ever so slightly and the clock slides towards 4pm.

Project complete, assignment over, there’s a study break in there, too, and we’re close together on the bed, pulling the computer back and forth from my lap to hers, clicking through YouTube, Facebook, and more.

Study break, parade, and we grab coats and ding, elevator downstairs. We’re blocks from Michigan Avenue, and an hour early, but people are thronging to that Magnificent street. Hearts pumping happily, we step briskly through crowds and past sweet cheek babies bundled in strollers.

Sun sets and parade’ll start in a bit or two, and we’ve found a spot along the street where we can see the street… more or less. Two women with dark hair, three little angels with them, stand directly in front of us. The smallest child, slick black hair pulled into a messy ponytail, has my attention before she even makes a noise. But her mother hoists her up and the little one’s at eye level with me now and shy black eyes look me over before turning away.

People are packed in all around us; three rows deep in front and five rows deep behind. Conversations flow and build on every side, and a parade marshal standing in the street is leading the wave among the crowd. I can hear so much, see so much, but the baby child next to me is exclaiming in Spanish and her words hit the Mexico ache in my heart like few things do. Parade marches on, and Kat and I, we exclaim and yell, taking pictures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and cheering exultantly when the lights on the trees all around us click on in an instant.

Parade, Christmas, lights. Kat, pictures, music. We’re pressed tight together, everyone in this crowd, and it only gets worse when we pull away and begin to move south, to the river, to the fireworks. But there’s a thrilling kind of excitement in so many people together, moving and living and celebrating.

And there’s fireworks, too, and we sit on a ledge by the river, thousands upon thousands of people all around, and watch colored fire explode amongst skyscraper after skyscraper. There’s so much there to celebrate, to enjoy. And I do.

And all the time, the sweet child’s voice rings in my ears, and the tug of Mexico pulls on my heart hard. Missing is sweet and terrible and red and green explosions of beauty over the river and suddenly, I think of a story that Hermana Tere told me about forgetting to pick her cousin’s daughter up from a doctor’s appointment. And life can’t be easy for a moment, can it?

Because homework comes relentless and it’s such a wonderful night and my heart breaks with emotion I can’t, or won’t, give name to, because it’s a multi-ethnic city and Spanish rings soft in every place I look. There’s a conversation of nothing but Princess Bride quotes in my text messages, and hot chocolate party in the lounge, and everything in me fights the homework I must return to now.

Every piece of my life demands more of my attention than I can give it and I feel like a puzzle divvied up, yet underneath it all, there’s a foundation- there has to be a foundation. Because God gives only what He can help me handle and He is sovereign and His will is perfect and my heart’s long since rubbed raw because a part of it is left in Mexico. But maybe that’s supposed to be.

Maybe all of this is supposed to be.

~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

None at All

30 Sep 2012 Leave a Comment

by nataliaria in France, God, Mexico, Miss, Writing

It’s a positive and a negative, really.

Doesn’t happen all the time,

heck, it doesn’t even happen frequently.

But sometimes, I’m thinking of so many things,

have so many things that I could tell you,

that I pull my computer onto my lap

and have to just think for a bit,

until I decide just what I’ll write.

Write about how I’ve been missing France lately.

I’m an elementary education major who left a substantial part of her heart in Mexico, and who pines nostalgically after Paris.

I’m interested to see how God unfolds that lovely blend of emotional connection and passion.

Write about the paper I’m writing,

a rephrasing, really, of the worldview statement I wrote last semester.

Talking about the love of God;

intense, persistent, overpowering Love.

Love that I so often deny, turn against,

decide not to accept, sometimes.

Write about God’s provision in the little things;

pay attention, or you might miss it.

Write about this, write about that,

there’s so very much to write about tonight,

maybe I’ll write none of it at all.

~Natalia

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