All Things Bright and Beautiful

“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful;
The Lord God made them all.

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.”

--Cecil Alexander, 1848

So concludes the first week of my official ministry in Limon, Costa Rica. There have been so many experiences this week- it seems like I somehow managed to get a lifetime of excitement in one week! Between my first official beach visit and the beginning of classes, I found myself exhausted from the constant adrenaline rushes and almost overwhelmed by the scope of God’s work here.

First of all, classes are a success… at least insofar as I can plan and execute them. I’m still stressed out about how I will manage to touch every subject that they are requesting from me, but for now it is simple enough and I am happy with that. Approximately 25 people showed up to the first class, for which I had prepared a brief history of music including a wide variety of sound samples ranging from Ugandan Mbira music to the works of Arcadelt and Bach. We discussed what music was, and what forms of it we preferred…it led to a remarkable conversation about influence and musical evolution that I hadn’t foreseen and really enjoyed.

From there we began the painstaking process of learning the note names for each clef and discussing scales. I have to be careful when I do this, as the adults prefer to learn in English and the children are restricted to learning in Spanish. In the past week I have learned that the treble clef is called la clave de sol, the bass clef is la clave de fa, and the alto clef is la clave de do. I have also learned that while Americans use the musical alphabet to describe notes, the Costa Rican system uses solfege and the far trickier terms bemol and sostinido for flats and sharps. I have decided- for my sanity, mostly- to teach both the English and Costa Rican system side by side. I also make them sightread using numbers instead of solfege. I am hoping that this will reinforce intervals when the time comes to explain those, and not force me to figure out how to sing sharps and flats in fixed-Do-Espanol.

Saturday’s class did not have the turn out I expected, being the last weekend of summer vacation here. No one from San Jose came out for the school which was both a relief and huge concern. It was a relief because you can teach a lot more when the ratio of teacher to student is 1:3, but a concern because I have no idea how many folks to expect from the capital. Also of concern is the fact that the people in San Jose, unlike those in Limon, do not speak English. They are learning, but it was only recently that the San Jose schools started requiring English- just as it has only been in the last few years that the Limonese have been required to learn Spanish.

My major concern- and I hope to have this addressed soon- is the fact that they want me to teach a variety of classes for the kids and adults. We prepared for this trip assuming that the children were only signed up for the lessons and not for the classes, but it has proven to be a bad assumption. They want the kids to learn the same things the adults are, but in kid terms. It would not be a problem to do this if I were only expected to teach the children during the week. Instead I’d be required to cover the same material during the Saturday classes… which aren’t long enough to accommodate 4 hours of kids classes on top of 4 hours of adult classes. Not to mention that one group or the other would be left to its own devices for the 4 hours that the other group is in class… a very difficult schedule to balance. Please be praying that we develop a compromise- I know my limits and these expectations are far beyond them.

On top of concerns at the school, upon my first visit to Faith Moravian Church- Limon’s only Moravian Church- I was appointed the new choir director and maybe even the new organist. I hope it is one job and not both because I would hate for them to see just how awful I really am at playing the organ, however if I need to play it I can manage. The church is not formal, so I think everything I can contribute will be appreciated, but that makes for two more nights a week that I am downtown when I’d rather be at home writing my lesson plans and watching WWE Smackdown.

That’s right- I said WWE Smackdown… one of the three programs we can get on our television other than the news show Primer Impacto. The other shows are The Family Guy (El Padre Del Familia), and El Chavo, which is the 1970’s sitcom that started the stereotype of the Mexican actor dressed as a little boy and with fake freckles drawn on his face. Believe me- you’d recognize Chavo if you saw him. He’s hilarious, so if you catch him on Telemundo, watch him. I plan on scouring the internet for subtitled DVD sets of him when I return to the US. In the meantime he will continue to teach me Spanish in between overdubbed showdowns between Edge and Triple H.

Between Chavo and lesson planning, I somehow managed to have time to visit the ultimate Costa Rican beach- Puerto Viejo. People here on the coast refer to the beaches just south of Limon as the “Heart of the Caribbean.” They are right on the money- there are more Jamaicans living on the Costa Rican coast than just about anywhere else outside of the actual country. They are Rasta, they are Reggae (or Reggaton in the younger circles), and they live up to the country’s slogan “Pura Vida,” or Pure Life.

Upon first arrival in Puerto Viejo, one is struck by the ridiculous number of street vendors hawking jewelry (beautiful and cheap jewelry), the stench of pot smoke mixed with garbage (a smell I am beginning to identify with most of the country), and the array of restaurants and lodges named in honor of the Reggae Roots master Bob Marley. I myself enjoyed a very inexpensive but ridiculously tasty cheeseburger- my first since leaving the US, no less- at a little café named for Marley’s daughter Tamara… or it could be his wife- I don’t really know.

The ocean in Puerto Viejo is very shallow and warm. This is due to the fact that most of Costa Rica’s coast is coral reef and not sand. This natural barrier catches sediment and forms a fence around the coast, making it a lot like an all natural wading pool; you can only go so far before confronted with a giant coral reef filled with crabs and anemones as high as your head. Of course, there are those who don’t care and walk across the reef- effectively killing it- but for those folks there are sharks waiting on the other side of the reef and attacks occur more frequently than I’m comfortable admitting.

The water here is also crystal clear- you can see everything. There are fish here that most Americans only see in the expensive section of the pet store- during my swim I saw beautiful purple fish with yellow tails, yellowfin tuna (babies), angel fish, green cichlids, algae eaters, pipefish, black fish with orange tails, and little yellow reef fish with black stripes. I also almost stepped on a very large crab that looked more like a rock- until he stuck out his claw. I saw a small octopus, and even a few very small puffer fish. It was amazing! Of course, such clear water comes at a price, my pasty white friends… you burn ten times faster, and with the opposite effect of the Atlantic. Instead of the pasty white body with the brilliantly red face and shoulders, you can expect minimal sun on your face and excruciating sunburn everywhere else. I thrice applied SPF 30 sunscreen before, during, and after my arrival and still managed to burn so badly that my back and legs (which were submerged the whole time, mind you) were nearly black. Of course, now I’m enjoying a nice deep tan, so the worst is over, I guess.

Well, this week the excitement continues with a board meeting on Wednesday. Carnivalito (something akin to a county fair, only held in the middle of downtown) is in town this week, so I plan to go down and check that out… I might ride the Ferris-wheel or torment the sloths in the central park (who take it SO well…). By the way- if you’re ever in Costa Rica, look in the trees; if you see something that looks like a giant sack of fur, then congratulations- it’s your first sloth!

Otherwise, it’s off to another week full of waiting and watching, looking to see how God will move next.

Skill and time are ours for pressing

Skill and time are ours for pressing
Toward the goals of Christ, your Son:
All at peace in health and freedom,
Races joined, the Church made one,
Now direct our daily labor,
Lest we strive for self alone:
Born with talents, make us servants
Fit to answer at your throne.

--Robert L. Edwards, 1961

The city of Limon is an exciting place, perhaps even a little frightening with its stream of tourists that beg thieves and pick-pockets who willingly slink out of the woodwork on a regular basis. It is not a safe city, at least not in the eyes of the locals who fence themselves into their small ramshackle homes crowning the coastline. Like San Jose, its big sister to the west, Limon is guarded by wrought iron fences and gates, but unlike San Jose they have high cement walls crowned with jagged glass to prevent would-be intruders from breaking in and stealing things that they don’t even have. It’s a city inside of a shell, much like the famed turtles that nest there annually.

Limon’s crunchy outer-shell is a good symbol of its people- very private men and women who have suffered their whole lives, whether fleeing from Nicaragua to the north (native Costa Ricans, by the way, don’t care for the Nicaraguans, although almost all of the Limonese people I have met at this point are natives of that country), suffering in abusive relationships, or eking out their livings amongst total poverty. There is no wealthy upper crust here- the wealthy wouldn’t dare live in the uncomfortable conditions here, or expose themselves to such a disparity in living conditions. There are only the lower middle class- teachers and Doctors (who are paid through the Government’s free health care system), the poor, the truly destitute, and the dead.

One tour through the various barrios is a convincing reminder of Limon’s crippled economy. There are Corrales 1, 2, and 3, Baja Collegio, and Collinas, which could be classified as the middle class here- they have a few feet of yard space, and the houses are fairly well maintained. The streets are fairly clean, and they are sometimes lucky enough to have neighborhood watch. Then there is Sube Collegio- the equivalent of the rich neighborhood, with homes overlooking the Caribbean, expensive cars in the driveway, maids and lawn maintenance, but housed in homes that would be unnoticed in the US. Just two story homes with nice perks. Then there are the real barrios- Pacuare Viejo, Pacuare Nuevo, and Ebais. I live in Pacuare Viejo, which is the best of the three, but definitely not somewhere you’d want to be out after dark.

Pacuare Viejo has many advantages over Pacuare Nuevo and Ebais- firstly, we have paved roads and close bus stops, and even a church in the neighborhood. People in my barrio know one another- there are lots of families from varied backgrounds and they sit in fine cane rocking chairs on their fenced porches and yell at one another from home to home. The children play in the streets, and a few residents have nice cars. We don’t have yards, although one or two homes have made small patches of orchids and papaya trees around their doors. We share one common wall with each of the houses beside us, which creates some privacy issues if you’re not used to the noise of large families, but the homes are small and clean.

My house is very neat and tidy, which is to be expected since I live with a former house servant. Sara takes great pains to make sure that the house is neat and thoroughly cleaned weekly. The walls are raw concrete, which would be bleak if it weren’t for the plastic floral arrangements in each room (this is a big business in Limon- many people prefer to decorate their homes and offices with artificial flowers here). Her many furnishings show age and are from mixed sets- another hallmark of Limonese living standards- but they are lovingly displayed in careful arrangement inside our small home. Despite her best efforts, we still have the occasional cockroach, and we caught two mice just this morning. This is to be expected, as the wooden structures here rot with the continual dampness, leaving holes in hidden places for these animals to seek shelter.

Sara is herself a survivor. She is approximately 60 years old- probably a little older, and suffers from Neurofibromitosis- a condition that riddles her body with large skin tags resembling warts and disfiguring her face. She fled Nicaragua 36 years ago, leaving behind a loving husband in hopes of finding a better life in Costa Rica. What she found was an abusive man and indentured servitude in the home of a Banana baron, where she cooked, cleaned, and raised children 6 days a week. In her own home her three children observed the violent fights and grew up to emulate it, resulting in the absence of her sons and grandchildren from her life, and a daughter who has no desire to marry or raise a family of her own. Now retired from necessity, my rent payment is her only income and is welcome- if you can imagine this, my $300 rent each month is still more money annually than she received while working.

Sara is a strong believer, and this is an encouragement to me. If someone who has endured so much in her life can be such a model of Christ, then certainly I have no excuse. She begins every day by praying and worshipping. We listen to the local Christian radio station (Christian SALSA MUSIC!) and then share small talk over breakfast before heading out into the world, which up to this point has included my work with the Limon Music Institute in conjunction with BuildaBridge International, held at First Baptist Church in downtown. She has spent every evening over the last week watching me teach the children in the chorus classes before coming home to share hot ginger tea that she makes herself with the butter cookies and Nutella I bought at the supermercado when I arrived. She tells me stories, teaches me Spanish, listens to me talk about my fears for the opening of the Music School, and has even taught me the trick to cooking plantain- both fried sweet and made into cakes to replace bread at meals. She is a wealth within herself, even if her home and surroundings say otherwise.

In the months to come I look forward to growing closer to Sara. I have hopes that having Roman (my fellow missionary- due to arrive in August) and myself available to her as companions will encourage her to try new things, to be comforted in her times of need, and to know that the Lord has seen her devotion and loves her dearly. I for one, think that my little place in the back bedroom of her home is no coincidence, but rather the greatest blessing little Limon can provide.

Downtown San Jose

This is the rotunda of the Catholic church in Downtown San Jose. Picture taken through a protective iron grid in my bedroom in Central Moravian Church.

“Breathe on me, breath of God.
Fill me with life anew
That I might love as thou hast loved
And do what thou wouldst do.”
-- Traditional hymn

My first day in Costa Rica was par for course, considering the morning that preceded it.

The best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, had me flying out of Greensboro at 7:20am, arriving in Atlanta at 8:47, and departing for San Jose at 10:01. So, assuming that I would have no difficulty getting through the Greensboro airport traffic at 6 in the morning, my mom and I set out for the airport at dawn.

When we arrived at the airport, I was eager to get the luggage (or as we say here “equipaje”) checked because I knew that I had some unusual arrangements to provide for- such as the overweight suitcases, 75-lb personal carry-on that I knew from experience wouldn’t fit in the overhead bins, and the two violins I was expected to carry along with me. Alas, when the vintage 1970’s automatic doors retracted I was faced with a check-in line the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I went to Europe with all 200 Grimsley High School choral students. The line was stagnant, and it seemed as though we were all just standing around and that no one was taking the initiative to get things moving along.

Eventually, in the haze of anger and confusion, the word spread from person to person that our flights had all been delayed by an hour and a half due to the airline policy that flight crews have minimal rest before taking off. I personally am very glad that this policy exists for obvious reasons, however a substantial delay was the difference between making it to my connection and being stranded in Atlanta for a day…alone. After an hour, and only ten feet further ahead in line, an airline official came through and asked each of us about our connecting flights and explaining that through necessity those with earlier connections that had even the smallest chance of making it would have to go on the earliest flight out and others would be transferred to a later flight. With my 10:01 departure, I was guaranteed the earlier flight…but not spared the indecently slow-paced queue.

At 8:15, with my new flight departure of 8:35 looming, I finally made it to the ticket counter, where I was abused verbally for my overweight bags and extra carry-on. Up to this point I had held myself together quite well, but her rough handling got to me. When the attendant refused to let me pay the extra baggage and made me open my bags and throw out whatever I could spare, my mom stepped in to tell them that I was moving away for a year, she brusquely responded that “we’re an airline- not a moving service.” And then threw my halfway-zipped bags on to the conveyor belt carelessly and telling me that I was going to miss my flight and to start running. Angry at her ill-treatment, I broke down and started crying…I was making a tremendous move to another country and it was all on the verge of being ruined because of poor planning on the part of the airline. It was too much.

Saying goodbye to my mom and placing everything I owned on the security screener, I tearfully prepared to run all the way to the last gate, which of course was where my plane was parked. I heard the final boarding call for the flight…and then I heard them call my name. I ran as hard as a plus-sized woman with a violin in one hand and a 75-lb book bag strapped to her back- oh, and flip flopped- can run, yelling at the stewardess to hold the door.

Our flight to Atlanta offered me some hope- we made great time and actually landed on the tarmac at 9:20, giving me plenty of time to take the train to the E terminal and to my gate for passport check. However, as the day would prove, nothing is ever that easy. We sat on the tarmac waiting for a gate opening until 9:50, and then I ran again…only this time through Atlanta’s gigantic airport. I got to the international terminal at 9:58 and thought that I would be spending the night in Atlanta when I heard the final boarding call. I ran again, almost in tears because I was sure that the plane was gone… it was 10:04. HOWEVER, much to my benefit, a young couple of newlyweds were negotiating their seats- the door was still open- and I was officially the last person to board the flight to San Jose.

Descending into San Jose was incredible- I have never seen such tremendous cloud formations, nor have I seen such dramatic scenery. The airport, which seems small but isn’t really, offers stunning views of the mountain ring that surrounds the city and features waterfalls and live music at every turn… not to mention a host of American restaurants like Papa John’s and Quiznos. It almost felt like a mall with planes pulling up to it!

San Jose is a beautiful city, although not in the way we as Americans typically think of something as beautiful. Make no mistake- you know from the moment you land on the tarmac that you’ve entered the third world. You can’t deny the flood of cheap cars emitting their plumes of thick smoke, or the sleeping homeless lounging on every corner, the poor infrastructure, or the feeling that you’ve just stepped into an issue of The Economist with its frequent photos of banana republics galore. No, this city has a color and a spice to it- it’s miles of brightly painted stores and churches adorned with razor wire, framed with tremendous flowering hibiscus plants, lush tropical verdure, and the smell of wood smoke mixed with exhaust. I feel like I can’t do it justice, but suffice it to say that I didn’t want to blink for fear that I’d miss another quaint image of Costa Rican city life.

It’s pretty easy to see why most of the country resides in San Jose. The temperature when I arrived was a cool 69 degrees, and I almost regretted not bringing a sweater…in fact still regret it a little as I write this on the bed in the Central Moravian parsonage where my windows are proving far more efficient than any air conditioning unit I’ve ever experienced. The city boasts everything you could ever want- casinos (attached to the Burger King, no less), fine dining, dance clubs, cinemas, upscale shopping and markets, and even the local street corner market vendors we unconsciously equate with Central American living. It is perfectly situated within the country, with the deserts and beaches of the west coast 2 hours away, and the rainforest and swampy Carribean coast that we usually picture when Costa Rica is mentioned (think Jurassic Park) within 3 hours to the east.

Of course, there is a seedy underbelly. There are myriad options for hourly hotel stays, and a high crime rate; every car has an alarm, every house as well, and the razor wire isn’t for decoration. They are also fond of fences. And not picket fences, but huge 10 ft high metal fences that make every shanty and mansion into tremendous compounds. Even as I write this, my host for the night- Benjamin- has just come by my bedroom to let me know that while our house alarm my go off during the night, the house itself is very safe. Good to know.

I haven’t had time to explore here as much as I’d like- although I think I’d be terrified to go out alone here- but I did get to have the most delicious Italian food EVER in a restaurant that had wooden slats for walls and floors…and you can see through the inch-wide gaps! Straight to the ground! All the way to the dirt and grass! I’ve also had the siesta of a lifetime in my wooden bed, which tells you a lot about how I spent my afternoon and evening…

Tomorrow Br. Leo Pixley (President of the Provincial Elders Conference here in Costa Rica) and I will leave San Jose at 5:30am and catch the bus to Limon, where I am told- frequently- it is unbearably hot and humid and smells like dead fish. I hope I can make it in a truly tropical setting- the natives don’t think I can. I also pray that I won’t get Malaria, as the pharmacy back in Greensboro couldn’t fill my whole prescription.

At any rate- tomorrow is a new experience. My first view of the Rainforest, and my first time seeing the faces of those I hope to teach. I hope it will be the blessing of a lifetime. And I hope there are lots of sloths.