Then in fellowship sweet we will sit at his feet,

or we'll walk by his side in the way;

what he says we will do,

where he sends we will go;

never fear, only trust and obey.

Trust and obey,

for there's no other way

to be happy in Jesus,

but to trust and obey.

John H. Sammis, 1846-1919

This has been an exciting week! God is so good- sometimes it’s hard to believe. Remember last week, when I was worried about the schedule I was expected to keep for the children and adults? Well, after our meeting this week it’s resolved! I finally have a plan that works…and what’s more, it’s exciting to see the products of just one week of work coming to fruition. The school has me excited- let me tell you why.

First of all, the scheduling issue. The board decided to have all children in a class together from 10-12 on Saturday. That means that all of the children get the education at the same time- a real blessing for me as the only teacher. That means I only have to teach them once during each week…which probably sounds like I don’t want to teach them at all…and that is very true.

I’m not trying to say that I don’t like children- it doesn’t have anything to do with that- but I appreciate music on a much more cerebral level than most children can understand. I like the process of learning about reading music. I like to teach music reading. I like to talk about harmony, modulations, compound meter… these things just fly right over their heads. The adults, on the other hand, can think outside the box. You can explain a concept and ask them to apply it with very little prior instruction. They follow directions better, they don’t ask irrelevant questions, they are physically capable of more, and they use the bathroom far less frequently. Altogether more suitable conditions. On top of that, they are so interested in learning a concept that they don’t mind doing something silly to grasp it.

I am reminded of when I taught violin lessons back in Tennessee and I had an 8 year old student who had never played before. We worked very hard to read music because it was her primary desire. This little girl was very serious and wanted to know WHY things were the way they were; learning Twinkle wasn’t enough- this girl wanted to read music from the very beginning. This girl’s mother was a Pastor, and was very involved in her daughter’s lessons. Often I would come up with some kind of strange way to teach a concept to this girl, and her mother would do it right along with us. By the end of my time at that program I had a student who could read anything in book one- after just a year- and her mother who could read it right along with her. Her mother didn’t care that I was using silly games and songs to teach her daughter- she joined in because she wanted to learn too. This is why I love adults.

That means that I need prayers to help me with planning well for the children, although I hope that Roman will be willing to take that class when he arrives. I really need the inspiration to be creative and energetic when I work with the kids, and to be engaging. I am teaching children from age 5 to 12, and most don’t speak English very well, if at all. It’s a struggle to plan something that isn’t too easy for the older kids, and isn’t too hard for the younger ones. Plus, we never know how many children to expect. Today’s class was decent- about 13 or so kids from 6 to 14, and most of them participated when we were singing and listening. I still felt like it was very hard to fill two hours for kids who really aren’t that interested in learning details. We sang a few songs and then learned about the basics of music. I hope I can flesh this out more.

As for the adults- things are really moving along! We’ve already learned about the clefs, notes of the staff, octaves, and key signatures. From that point we introduced melodic dictation and some vocal exercises. Using a scale that we sang on numbers, they were able to write Mary Had a Little Lamb. We practiced doing different songs in different keys, and then I sent them home to write a piece of music on their own- based on established rules I had laid out: 1) must be in a key other C Major, 2) Must follow the rules of whatever time signature you choose, and 3) must begin or end on the tonic. The results were incredible- we had hymns and children’s songs dutifully composed by memory. They were so proud of their work- and me in theirs! From Sister Herta’s “Take My Life” all the way to Miss Perdita’s quaint variation on “This is the Day,” I was shocked by what they had absorbed already. Doing this project proved to me that they understood what we were learning clearly.

From melodic dictation we moved into sight reading. I was skeptical at first- I thought it would take weeks for us to even latch on to the idea behind it, but I should’ve known that they’d surprise me. I started by introducing the skill of audiation- being able to hear a song in your head when you see it on paper. We revisited our C Major scale on numbers and practiced jumping around from interval to interval. Then I taught them the technical terms for the basic intervals in music and the trick tunes we use to remember them. They latched right on, and by the end of the class I was writing songs on the board and they were telling me what they were without hearing or singing them. It was COOL.

Then, to top it all off, we started harmonizing. I used the age old tricks of singing scales and getting each section to hold their note, then pointing to each section and having them change up or down as I pointed. This builds vocal independence- if people aren’t used to singing in harmony, this is a good way to trick them into discovering how to do it. We, as a group of 8, were able to sing a complete progression in four-part harmony: I-IV-I-V-I. Sister Herta actually cried because of how beautiful it was. I think I can make a choir with my most dedicated students. We’ll see- that has NEVER been my strong point.

Outside of the exciting world of the school, this week was filled with freedom and excitement. I went, as promised, to Carnivalito. It wasn’t much to talk about- a few rides scattered here and there, but I’d never been to the Market when the vendors were out- that was unbelievable! There were necklaces, shoes, earrings, sunglasses, windchimes, hand knitted hats and pocketbooks, handmade mirrors painted in brilliant colors, and all sorts of fantastically useless chismes, or gadgets in English. My favorite thing to see, though, was the wide array of handmade furniture and home décor.

They had beautiful handmade rocking chairs, beds, stools, cabinets, and dressers all made from beautiful hardwoods and stained in gorgeous hues. The makers were carving and finishing pieces right in the middle of the market…and these are no flimsy pieces of thrown together workmanship. These are substantially large and heavy pieces- well-made and priced inexpensively. They also sold little knickknacks that they had carved and painted while sitting in their booths- brilliant mobiles of scarlet macaws, hand carved bunches of bright yellow bananas, even hanging vignettes of village life. Each was painted in colors I could only imagine. This country is definitely the place for artists.

Beyond visiting Carnivalito, it was just good to get out and go where I wanted for a change. It seems like I never get to do the things I want when I’m in town, and I really just wanted to explore the many shops and vendors along the seaside. On Thursday- the day I went to Carnivalito- I explored the city with my friend Latoya. Latoya is awesome. We have gone on some type of trip together every week since I arrived, and we plan on doing a lot more. She is hilarious, and we mesh well. Anyhow, Latoya showed me all of the hidden treasures of seaside Limon- where to buy cheap shoes and clothes imported from Brazil, the best unknown restaurants… anything you could ever want to know.

Friday I went to town again- this time alone, just to window shop and do whatever I pleased. It was great- I bought my first pair of Brazilian shoes, which are valued here because they are very high heeled and very funky looking but are very comfortable to wear for heavy-duty walking. They’re great and squishy, too. I had fresh churros from a roadside vendor, and ate at the equivalent of Burger King here- Pollo Campero, where they only serve chicken, fries, rice, beans, and plantains…go figure. When I reached home, Sara had prepared the scandalous sea turtle for dinner.

Sea turtles are endangered here, but until a year or so ago they could be hunted for a short season each year. Now people have grown accustomed to it and they buy and sell it on the black market. Our turtle was a gift from a neighbor, so I felt a little bit better about it. Turtle meat looks like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s spongy and deep red, with holes all over …and reminds me of those pictures they used to show us in health class of the livers with cirrhosis. As for its taste, it’s delicious. The meat is tender and tastes like beef, only much greasier. They dice everything up- tripe, liver, meat- and cook it like pot roast… and you’d probably never guess it wasn’t high quality beef if no one told you. On the other hand, if you’re sensitive to greasy foods like I am, it will make you sicker than anything else you’ve ever eaten. I’m glad I tried it, but I’m not anxious to have it again.

Of course, my problems with the turtle could have stemmed from my visit to Limon’s aquarium with Latoya. The aquarium is a hallway filled with 10-gallon tanks and plastic wading pools. It’s free, of course, because it’s in a hallway, but they have a surprising set of animals. In one tank are fish from the local rivers. They’re boring looking. Another tank has fish from the Asian coral reef, another from Australia, another from Micronesia, and the last with fishies from our own local coral reef. They are so lovely! Of course, they also had the super-poisonous Lion fish on display, and a few sharks caught just outside the city.

In those plastic wading pools, though, are turtles from all over the city. There are miniature box turtles, longneck turtles, and some others I can’t remember…but the best was the sea turtle. He had a whole pool to himself, and you could come right up and touch him, but there he was- a real live sea turtle, injured from a fishing net, swimming around with two missing legs in a swimming pool in a hallway in downtown Limon. You can see why I was torn about eating his cousin. But…that’s okay. This experience is all about finding a new life- seeing how someone else lives and challenging myself. And that’s what I’m continuing to do, one day at a time.

At any rate, I’ve got some good stories to tell my grandkids

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.

When We Lift Our Pack and Go

"When we lift our pack and go,

When we seek another country,

Moving far from all we know,

When we long to journey free-

God is in the other place,

God is in another's face,

In the faith we travel by,

God is in the other place."

-- Shirley Erena Murray, 1988

I left Nashville for the final time on Sunday, June 22nd, following a week of intense packing and wedding to-dos. While Friday and Saturday were occupied with my friend's wedding, it was also underlined with the realization that I was finally embarking on this amazing journey. In fact, not usually given to shows of intense emotion, I wept like an overzealous fountain the moment I wished my newlywedded friend goodbye- it was the moment I understood that we were both leaving and that our futures may never realign again. That's a tough pill to swallow when you consider my vast family of Tennessee, Mississippi, and Oklahoma friends. Suddenly Costa Rica seems even further away.

The trip home was long and uneventful, unless you count the mandatory stop for high-grade explosives at Sevierville's amazing Fireworks emporium and the stultifying crawl through the gorge that connects Tennessee's I-40 with the North Carolina portion. Add to that the 14 ft Diesel moving truck Daddy had rented that couldn't move faster than 60 mph, and I'd say that it was the easiest (and slowest) trip home I'd ever made!

After a day of respite, I ventured into Winston Salem for an orientation meeting with the good folks at the Board of World Missions and the Moravian Music Foundation, where I quickly discovered that a) I am much better at lesson planning when others are giving me their ideas, and b) I will be NO MATCH for the various parasites in my drinking water and food... at least I have been warned!

The meeting was comforting- it was good to know that provisions were in place and that I could reliably say that I knew what I was doing. Or at least I could pretend that I knew. My partner seems much more confident than I feel, despite my tenuous but comparitively superior grasp of Spanish. We are very well matched- Roman brings the passion and creativity I lack, while I am more pragmatic and better at the management side of things. Between the two of us I am excited for him to join me in Limon because I know that he will so greatly amplify our outreach. This doesn't even take in to consideration his profound passion for Christ, which has impressed me since we met 5 years ago. He is an incredible asset to our ministry- I'm thrilled that he is my sole companion for this project.

After hours of preliminary lesson planning and sorting handfuls of Costa Rican Colones for me to buy my first meal in San Jose, we tore into boxes of materials that the good people at Brentwood Benson donated for our school. Now this says alot about the wonderful depth of character at my former place of employment- when approached about donations, they did not hesitate to volunteer the materials of my choice. This has resulted in the generous contribution of $2000 worth of great hymnals, Gospel piano books, and general worship resources. (By the way, my BBMPI friends, they FLIPPED OUT over the Praise and Worship Fakebook CD-ROM- it was adored by one and all!)

From there I received my first mission assignment- I am teaching music for two hours every day to children at an entirely Spanish speaking Moravian congregation called Iglesia de Cordero del Dio. Yesterday I had the pleasure of meeting the Pastor, Enrique. He is a slight man from Peru who may be 5' when he stands on his tiptoes, and he speaks little to no English. He's very funny though, and while I can't speak Spanish well enough to tell exactly what I want to, I do understand about 95% of what he says to me, which makes communication easier than I initially expected.

At my first class at Cordero today I had only Enrique's children, Emiliano and Zulema, and his wife Rosita in my class despite the earlier estimate of 10 children. Rosita speaks English pretty well, and the children are absolutely brilliant, so I admit that I am inclined to cheat a little and speak only English when we work together.

Class was slow going at first- I was initially prepared to teach an entire class of 7-11 year olds, so having the class diminished to what amounted to be a long private lesson was awkward and really threw me off. I started by teaching two rudimentary camp songs that I thought they might know from Laurel Ridge Summer Camp, but neither had attended and I quickly discovered that songs I had no trouble picking up when I was in third grade don't necessarily make sense to non-native English speakers. In fact, they're pretty darn hard to explain and teach! Also, upper elementary aged kids don't really like to sing by themselves, even if they're related. That cut down my lesson plan substantially, as I could garner no participation from my audience.

I handed out a recorder to each child and Mom and immediately launched into how we read music. Now this really surprised me- Emiliano, who may be 7 years old, could tell me the names of each beat type I drew on the board, and even how many beats each was valued at. Zulema, although notably less willing to participate, could go even further than that- both children had a very firm grasp on meter and time signatures. We started by clapping some basic rhythms, which went well, and then I drew incorrect rhythm patterns on the board, allowing them to make the appropriate additions and subtractions to each pattern in order to suit the time signature. Rhythm came so easily that I went full-speed ahead and got them started with note-reading.

At this point, both had only done basic rhythmic practice, although Zulema vaguely remembered how many lines were in a staff and which clef was the bass clef. We began discussing the treble clef, and I drew a C major scale for them to see how music is notated. Then, with the goal of playing "Hot Cross Buns" in mind, I had them come up and find B-A-G on the scale. One by one I had the come up to the chalkboard and write a measure of music that I would dictate verbally. They had no difficulty remembering where each note belonged and what note value needed to be written. In no time at all they had handwritten the music for "Hot Cross Buns," and were playing away. Zulema especially picked it up quickly, while Emiliano struggled a little with keeping the finger holes properly covered. In the meantime, however, Zulema had already begun to try figuring out new songs.

For the final exercise I had them choose a song that sounded like "Hot Cross Buns." They chose "Mary Had a Little Lamb," which Zulema had already begun to decode while I had been helping Emiliano. Together, with no pomp or circumstance, I led my 7 year old Emiliano and 11 year old Zulema through their first melodic dictation project- and the results were incredible. Not only were they able to successfully write the tune to "Mary Had a Little Lamb," but they had it spot-on with only the most basic assistance. We wrapped up the lesson by playing through the tune and talking about the goals they had for our mini-workshop. Both answered that they wanted to learn reading skills, which is good since they already show an inclination towards it.

Right now I am crafting the lesson plan for our next adventure, but I hardly know what to do. These kids have obvious talent... can I come through with a fun but challenging offering for tomorrow? I guess only time will tell. Perhaps the old teacher is finally coming out of her shell...

Ubi Caritas

"God is love,

and where true love is God himself is there.

*

Here in Christ we gather,

love of Christ our calling.

Christ, our love, is with us,

gladness be his greeting.

Let us fear and love him,

Holy God eternal.

Loving him, let each love

Christ in one another.

*

God is love,

and where true love is God himself is there."

--Ubi Caritas, tr. James Quinn

There are exactly 34 days left until I leave the United States. Of those 34 days, there are 19 left until I leave Tennessee, and 6 days until my time at Brentwood-Benson is at an end. I struggle to see the 34 days as something that will pass quickly, however if there is anything I have learned in the world of sales, it is that days pass frustratingly quickly. That said, there is an urgent desire present for me to divvy up my free time among my Nashville friends and Brentwood Customers- I don't want to leave this stage of my life without making sure that I make contact with everyone I care about.

I have a theory that this sense of urgency is also due to the wonderful meeting I attended over Memorial Day weekend. Finally able to get together with my fellow missionary and site coordinator, we spent a long morning discussing the materials available and curriculum for the school year. It was surprisingly liberating to have the details on paper in front of me, and to see pictures of the home where I'll be staying. I guess it was the reality setting in- I am actually going to do this!

Spurred on by the realization that I was truly going to leave this phase of my life, I decided to spend my last weekend as the Mississippi representative at Brentwood going out on the road and actually making it a priority to meet customers that have supported me during my brief stay in Middle Tennessee. I knew already that a customer of mine was preparing one of our musicals, so I scheduled an entire trip around that performance. By the time I left Nashville at 6 in the morning, I had made plans to visit one of my best bookstores, have dinner with the Music Minister at my highest grossing church account, worship and celebrate a birthday with one of my sweetest customers, all culminating in the worship concert at Calvary Baptist in Meridian.

To say that my customers have supported the mission I'm pursuing is an understatement, and that was evident along every leg of my trip. At every stop there were questions about my plans, prayers for support, and personal stories about missions taken and friends who pursued the call. It was, officially, the first time I truly felt like my decision was valid and encouraged. That's not to say that I felt discouraged in my pursuit of this mission, but rather that I was afraid of disappointing the people to whom I had become so close.

And the Lord had something to say to me this weekend, sitting in a church hundreds of miles away from Nashville, and nearly a thousand miles from Greensboro.

Let me preface this by saying that the Moravian church in North America is not exactly known for it's charisma, and beyond that, mission work had been something that many of us have only heard of and not experienced. Not surprisingly for the South, most of the churches I visited this weekend were Baptists- a denomination known for it's modern day commitment to missions and passionate Evangelical worship

As I was sitting in this warm and friendly church in Pass Christian, I noticed that there was a scheduled speaker who had been asked to speak about her pending mission to India. I was thrilled to hear this; not only was I getting the opportunity to talk person-to-person with someone much like myself, but I also have a strong passion for India and was eager to share my knowledge with her as well.

Shemane, as was her name, had never been on an international mission. In fact, she had never been out of the country at all. She had discovered this mission, which was a short-term trip to an orphanage in New Delhi, from her 16 year old daughter who had herself heard of it from someone in her dance studio. Shemane was quick to say that she was hesitant to agree when her daughter approached her with the idea, but it was only a matter of time before God had put the call on her heart. Now she was organizing her first trip out of the country with her young daughter, and heading into a place where there was no chance for her to adequately communicate, and perhaps what is more frightening, she was not at liberty to do so.

Together in the church office, we talked about our fears- how we as, let's face it, white people might be perceived in our host countries, how we were raising the necessary funds for our programs, and our hopes for what we might accomplish while we where there. She was surprised at the length of my committment, and I was amazed by her willingness to go into a land where Christianity is not encouraged. At least in Costa Rica most people are already Christians... Hindus may believe in the universal God (despite his many manifestations), but the Muslim population there seems to be at odds with everyone in opposition to their beliefs.

By the time I left Pass Christian, I had given Shemane a copy of my favorite Indian film (to help her Hindi along), and she had confirmed something very important for me. I have always viewed other missionaries as people who managed to live a life above the stresses of human necessity. I don't know why that is- the logical and rational side of me is more than aware of the numbers of missionaries who risk all that they have for the sake of the call- but for some reason, I think of missionaries other than myself as people who are never frustrated, never tired, and never second-guessing their decisions. I certainly didn't fit that description , and I had secretly been beating myself up over whether I was the right person for the mission because of my fears and frustrations. Shemane put all of that into perspective, voicing many of the same concerns as I had been harboring; it was reassuring to know that a fellow servant had many of the same reservations. I felt like I had been validated.

Before heading back up the interstate towards Meridian (where, incidentally, I was blessed with the opportunity to SING with the choir I was originally just going to hear), I drove through the tiny town of DeLisle and down to Highway 90, just Northwest of Long Beach. I followed the Highway, which is oceanfront and still largely devasted from Hurricane Katrina years ago, through to Gulfport. This had been my first serious mission trip- rebuilding homes, cleaning beaches, and bringing food and comfort to the people of Gulfport, a city that my Aunt had reminisced fondly over and where my Great Aunt (whose husband had been the President of Gulfport Womens College) had survived Hurricane Camille and brought me the stories that dotted my childhood memories.

Gulfport remained largely the same as I remembered it, but I was inspired with the new growth occuring here and there. I drove off the main street and back to the Mississippi National Guard post that had been my home during my stay, but it had long been abandoned. I felt this to be a sign of sorts. This chapter of my life was quickly closing. While relationships and landmarks would be certain to change, my memories would remain... eagerly awaiting new ones I have yet to make.

And so I am sitting at the computer and studying the calendar next to it, and reminiscing over the past three years of my life. There are 34 days left until I leave this country. 19 days left before I leave Tennessee. 6 days until I leave Brentwood-Benson. And while I still fear the unknown, I know I will remember these last days for as long as I live.