Back in the Baja

“It is much more comfortable to depersonalize the poor so we don’t feel responsible for the catastrophic human failure that results in someone sleeping on the street while people have spare bedrooms in their homes.  We can volunteer in a social program or distribute excess food and clothing through organizations and never have to open up our homes, our beds, our dinner tables … I’m just not convinced that Jesus is going to say, ‘When I was hungry, you gave a check to the United Way and they fed me,” or, “When I was naked, you donated clothes to the Salvation Army and they clothed me.”  Jesus is not seeking distant acts of charity.  He seeks concrete acts of love.”  - Shane Claiborne

As I was completing my Bachelor of Human Justice this past spring, I found myself overwhelmingly met with the question: “So, what are your plans after finishing school?”.  I was well-aware that I was expected to respond with an extravagant and detailed lifelong agenda that conformed to ubiquitously upheld North American notions of success and happiness.   Consequently, in my travels from the forests of northern British Columbia, to the lakeshores of Ontario, to the craggy cliffs of Newfoundland, I spent this entire summer mulling over my options in determining a new route for my life.  Quite frankly, none of the mainstream options offered any sort of appeal to me.

So for nine weeks, I’ve been living in Vicente Guerrero, Baja California, Mexico, at the same mission I served at for three months earlier this year.  I spend my days in a swarm of dust and children, looking disheveled and frazzled at best.  Although I have neither any training nor obvious gift in the area of teaching, children, or Spanish, I am working at a school for children with special needs.  I teach Art classes five days a week, in addition to teaching English as a Second Language and tutoring in Math. 

It’s not quite the glamorous nine-to-five job with the disposable income that most of my fellow classmates at university were seeking.  And I never quite expected myself to persevere through four intense years of studying Human Justice to end up as an Art teacher for kids with special needs in Mexico, the last country I ever intended to visit.  But I cannot imagine a better "use" of my years of study.  After all, I never perceived my pursuit of a Bachelor's degree as a means to acquire a job.  It was about being equipped with the academic and practical knowledge to effectively seek justice in a broken world...  

Because donating money to Oxfam or Amnesty International was too easy.  Because praying for the "world's poor" from the safety and familiarity of a church pew was not enough.  Because I need to go beyond the comfortable and convenient ways of caring for human welfare, even if it takes me far from home...

Being a part of this mission has been an enormous blessing.  It's inspiring to see people going beyond opening up their wallets to help their brothers and sisters in need.  I’m impressed by my peers who have willingly agreed to give up a year, or several years, to commit their time purely to unpaid volunteer work.  

Yet we are not perfect.  Being a missionary does not make any of us noble - especially if our primary purpose in doing such work is to feel good about ourselves.  Even those of us on the mission field can easily fall into a routine of just doing our job, nothing more.  We all need a reminder, myself included, that God doesn't call us to fight for justice when we feel like it.  We aren't asked to help out simply when we have the energy or a moment to spare.  It's a full-time job; a lifelong commitment.  

I know I could be contributing so much more.  Most likely, all of us could.  And I'm not talking about just being a little more generous around Christmastime.  I'm referring to genuine acts of love, compassion, and service that all of us are capable of doing.  

I can't imagine anything more devastating than reaching the end of my life and realizing that I could have done more.  

Can you?

Week Ten & Beyond: Looking Back, Looking Forward

“It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.” -Robert F. Kennedy

When I first arrived in Vicente Guerrero, naïve and entirely unprepared for the events that would quickly ensue, I initially felt mildly disappointed.  As an enterprising go-getter, hardwired for academic success, and driven to solve all the world’s problems (yes, all of them), I expected my ten weeks as a practicum student at a social justice agency in rural Mexico to be one that would afford me the opportunity to engage in work of significant consequence.  I came to be challenged, to do powerful work that would produce powerful results—that was both my purpose and my goal.

Yet when I discovered that my supervisor had placed me in a department with children, I became skeptical.  Working with kids that have special needs was sure to be a challenge—especially having absolutely no training in that field—but it wasn’t the challenge I came to pursue in Mexico.  A passionate fourth-year student of Human Justice, I didn’t see myself gaining what I had set out to gain through this type of work.  In fact, the duties of changing diapers and bathing children seemed not only irrelevant to my purposes and degree, but they almost seemed insulting.  To further aggravate the situation was the fact that I wanted nothing to do with kids: didn’t want to have them, didn’t want to work with them.

I can’t pinpoint the precise moment that everything changed.  I can’t recall if it was more of a slowly transformative case, or if everything turned around in such a flash that I couldn’t even see it coming.  But sooner or later, my priorities changed.  My goals shifted.  It was no longer about being the superlative practicum student with another academic success story to add to my résumé, but rather being a compassionate human being with a personal investment in the lives of the children I worked with. When I returned to my humble trailer every night, my appearance was dishevelled but my spirits were untameable.  Sure, I wasn’t the practicum student of a prestigious and well-known social justice organization, donning a neatly pressed suit and madly writing up reports from highly influential conferences.  But, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. poignantly asserted, “no work is insignificant.  All labour that uplifts humanity has dignity and importance and should be undertaken with painstaking excellence.” 

The children I worked with for those precious ten weeks completely enriched my life.  My heart was stolen by all twenty of these beautiful kids, but my heart was also repeatedly broken by witnessing both the daily and more deep-rooted struggles these children faced.  The world for these children was tragically inaccessible, considering the bitter intersection of their special developmental or mobility needs with their family’s low socioeconomic status.  Life, for these niños, was not easy.  Their health was poor.  Abuse in the children’s homes was pervasive.  In Mexico, it was considered a curse to have a child with Down’s syndrome.  It was an enormous burden to have a child with spina bifida or muscular dystrophy who would spend his or her entire life in a wheelchair.  Basic nutrition and hygiene was not always practiced at home.  The future, for most of these children, was quite bleak. 

Only seeing their shocking housing conditions, hearing of their unsafe family situations, and witnessing the inevitable struggles of having a mental or physical incapacitations would be enough to want to pity these ‘poor’ children.  But I quickly learned that this sympathy, however altruistic or well-intended it may be, was unnecessary.  These children were too positive, too loving, too full of life to be pitied.  They had a desire and a capacity to learn just like any other child.  They had incredible protective instincts for each other and treated both fellow classmates and teachers with a depth of compassion I was constantly moved by.  Sure, they required extra assistance and had their own ways of learning—but that did not make them ‘needy’ nor did it make them ignorant.  To me, they were no less smart or less able; no, they just shone in their own unique ways.  And the truth is, I learned much more from them than I (even as their teacher) could possibly reciprocate.

My work may not have been glamorous, nor was it some grand or noble contribution to the social justice field or the people of Mexico.  Regardless, I attacked my work with vigour and intention, knowing that I wasn’t likely going to effect major differences or change dozens of lives, but I worked as if I could.  With the “I am only one, but I am still one” mentality, I ended up finding my work to be the most rewarding I’ve ever done, no matter how small my contributions were.  I was challenged to lengths as great or greater than I had with my experiences as a university student, tree planter, canoeist, or traveler. 

The next step:  seeking the ‘new normal.’ My experience in Mexico was truly life-changing, eye-opening, and paradigm-shifting, and I will never be the same.  In some ways, I feel broken from all that I went through.  But in some ways, I feel empowered, and I want to take what I have learned and push it further, take it to the next level.  Allowing this to be a ‘closed chapter’ of my life would make everything I worked for, everything I went through, to be in vain.  I refuse to allow this experience to deaden; I refuse to forget the people back in Mexico that I came to love.  Instead, I choose to send forth a tiny ripple of hope from whatever work I do, from wherever I may be.

Weeks Six, Seven, & Eight: The Beginning of the End

For the past several weeks, I`ve been searching for a way to describe the past two months of living and volunteering at a mission in north-western Mexico.   Apparently, with it almost being a month since my last post, this has been a struggle for me.  I`ve come to realize it’s impossible to easily summarize such a multi-dimensional experience, with all its inevitable highs and lows, and innumerable ways it has changed my life (many of which won’t likely become evident until I return home).  There is no perfect word, no singular story or allegory, no way I can adequately convey the themes, or meanings, or events of the past eight weeks.  Instead, allow me to share in the only way I can think of:

Ad lib: A dominant theme since being here has been mastering the art of ad libbing.  FFHM is an organization that almost entirely depends on its volunteers and donations – so when resources are low, we need to improvise.  Few of us are actually trained for the positions we fill, so the prevailing mantra is “we do what we can, even if we don’t always know what we’re doing.”  

Black mould: During my first five weeks here, I discovered just how bad black mould is for your health!  I had to move out of the house I shared because my room was covered in it.

Celebrating: It’s a method of self-care when surrounded by poverty and sadness.  Dwelling on the unfortunate circumstances – the unemployment rates, the destitution in the migrant camps, the lack of educational opportunities – is not sustainable.  Instead, I’ve learned from the more veteran staff members here to celebrate the good times: birthdays, the small and large accomplishments of the children we work with, a sunny day off…

Devotions:  This is how all staff members here start the work day, for an hour each morning.  It’s been a great opportunity to reflect on life, grow spiritually, and come together in fellowship with people from other departments I otherwise interact with minimally. 

Escuela:  Spanish for “school.”  I spend a semester away from university, yet I still find myself inside a school all day!  Regardless, there is something special about the escuela I work at, since the children genuinely appreciate the teachers and opportunity to learn here. The learning centre is an absolute joy to work at.  Every child there has stolen my heart, even though I can’t communicate with some of them due to language barriers or their mental/physical incapacitations. 

Finite:  Since being here, I’ve come to realize that being finite is being human.  I am subject to bounds and limitations, just like everyone else.  I know the lessons I’ve taught at the learning centre haven’t always been particularly enthralling or life-changing for the kids; that I’ve been disoriented or confused and then subsequently messed up.  But humanity is about making mistakes, and learning to become comfortable with our flaws & imperfections. 

Guava.  Officially my new favourite fruit. 

Handprints:  One warm February afternoon a few weeks ago, all of the children from the learning centre left their handprint in the cement sidewalk (a new building for the learning centre is being constructed & will officially open later this spring).  These children are the hub of this place; the purpose for FFHM’s existence; and the reason why my time here has been so special – so seeing them all leave their handprints on the face of this earth was incredible.   

I:  One of the most over-used words there is.  How many times in a day do we say the word ‘I’?  It’s all about my interests, my needs, my perspective, my way.  Being here has been a refreshing experience, as I’m surrounded by people who are not volunteering at FFHM on their own mandate, for their own purposes – but rather to serve both people and God.  I’m inspired by the people here whose lives are completely driven by the desire to serve, genuinely expecting no glory or benefit for themselves. 

Jicama:  Have you heard of this vegetable before?  Native to Mexico & South America, jicama is a lumpy, whitish cousin of the sweet potato.  I had it for the first time in a fruit-and-veggie salad – it tastes much like a regular potato.

Karma:  What goes around comes around.  FFHM has blessed so many people in this impoverished community of Vicente Guerrero, but it receives blessings right back.  Short-term staff members’ lives are changed in only a few weeks by being here, and end up serving at FFHM for years. 

Letters:  It’s hard to feel lonely when I have such incredible family and friends.  Thanks so much to everyone who has put the thought, time, and love into sending me a letter (or an e-mail!).  I feel so supported and encouraged.  Award for the most letters received definitely goes to my parents (I love you both so much!), but the award for the letter from the furthest country (Ghana) obviously goes to Sarah (I love you so much, too!).

Menudo:  A type of traditional Mexican soup, made from the stomach of a cow.  I love being immersed in a new culture, but as a vegetarian, there are just some things I can’t quite bring myself to doing…

Networking:  It’s a small world.  Rural Mexico is the last place I would’ve expected to make connections with people who have heard of my hometown of Langenburg, Saskatchewan; who have met several of my relatives living in B.C.; who know people I’ve taken university classes with.  Since being here, I’ve spoken with fellow Swedes and Norwegians about lefse and lutefisk; I’ve oohed and ahhed over how beautiful it is to drive through northern Minnesota; and I’ve even been able to discuss the wonders and horrors of tree planting to a couple whose son planted in Alberta for two years. With new visitors coming to volunteer at FFHM every week, I certainly haven’t been short of networking opportunities!

Outreach: I make weekly trips with the outreach team to migrant camps in the surrounding area, which has undoubtedly been an eye-opening experience.  Work is scarce in Mexico, so families often migrate according to field work opportunities.  This tends to deprive children of a formal education, as they are often left unsupervised in these camps during the day while their parents seek work in the fields.   The houses are dilapidated, and don’t always have locks, so men freely enter them at night to rape girls and women.  Dogs, turkeys, and rats roam about, spreading disease.  We can’t fix everything, but part of our mandate is to show the children in these camps true love and affection, which they are starving for.  It has been one of the main highlights of my time here.

Pacific Ocean: Only about three or four miles away from where I live (although the drive feels long, if you know anything about Mexican roadways…)

Quesadillas:  A personal favourite.  Mexican food really does taste better when it’s authentic!

Religious conflict: A common characteristic of southern Mexico, to the extent of home and crop burnings, beatings, and even murders.  Like most ideological conflicts, this is a complex issue I’ve been seeking to understand my entire time here.  Many native Mexicans that work at FFHM have left southern states (especially Oaxaca) to escape the conflict and practice their faith freely in the Baja, which is more religiously stable. 

Simplicity:  Life is simple here.  With fewer material distractions, it’s easier to focus my time on what truly matters to me.  I love that everything I brought with me fits into my backpack; that one small laundry load washes everything I own.  If I do find myself in need of anything, I thankfully live in a tight-knit community that borrows and lends incessantly.  It’s refreshing to be reminded that I can survive off of so little. 

Trailer: Due to the black mould situation mentioned earlier, I’m now living in my own trailer.  I’ve had 8 different roommates in 20 months, so it’s been a treat having a place to myself.

Umbrella:  Would’ve been ideal to have here, since it’s rained the past two weekends (rain boots, too…) Oh well, live simply, right?

Victories: Some of my greatest memories here have been moments where one of my kids at the learning centre triumphed in some new area.  Last Thursday, Julia rode a bike entirely by herself for the first time.  Having been her primary caregiver for the past two months, I was absolutely elated – it was the most beautiful victory I’ve witnessed here. 

Wheelchairs:  Have you ever noticed how inaccessible our world can be for some?  It is not a very accommodating or friendly place, especially for half of the kids at the learning centre who have spent their entire lives in a wheelchair.  I admire the physical and mental strength of these children, who regularly deal with frustrating technical malfunctions, such as getting their wheelchair stuck in the sand (it is the desert, after all), or the emotional agony of watching their peers running and jumping and enjoying their childhood. 

Xenophobia: Fear of the foreign – other cultures or belief systems – is a mighty destructive thing.  I’ve encountered a handful of people here who reject ideological or cultural ‘outsiders,’ and it’s painful to see.  Being open-minded and accepting is one of the best gifts I think you can give someone.

Yield?:  Mexican drivers tend to misread ‘stop’ signs as ‘yield’ signs around here (if they even brake at all…)

Zapata: A town just a few miles north of here, named after the agrarian reformer Emiliano Zapata, who inspired the Zapatista Army of National Liberation – which is of great political interest to my inner geek.  

Week Five: Oh, We're Halfway There

All weekend, a Bon Jovi song has been on constant replay in my head:  “Oh, we’re halfway there / Oh, oh, livin’ on a prayer.”  It’s fitting, though – this past Saturday marked my halfway point for my time in Mexico, as hard as it is to believe.  But in lieu of a mid-term report, I thought I would share some facts I find interesting (and you might, too!):

• There is a palm tree right outside my bedroom window.
• Drivers licenses are essentially optional, signal lights are unused, and speed limit signs serve no purpose in the Baja … Suffice it to say that roads here are chaotic.
• The salsa here is so strong that even just being in the same room as it makes you cough.
• Vicente Guerrero is an agriculturally-driven city, with a population of 15,000, and is wedged in between the Pacific Ocean and a beautiful mountain range.  I’m spoiled by the beauty here!
• FFHM grows strawberries, oranges, lemons, guava, olives, and lots of macadamia nuts…
• …and the shells from the macadamia nuts are used to fill the potholes in the dirt roads around the mission site. 
• I’ve felt several tremors from earthquakes along the Baja peninsula while here – the more recent earthquake being a 4.2! (This is rather exciting for a Prairie girl…)
• Last Tuesday, my little girl Julia—who has Down’s syndrome and usually does not speak—said the words “blue,” “two,” and “four” in Spanish.  Needless to say, I was thrilled!
• Founded originally as an orphanage, FFHM has since expanded to include a Christian school (kindergarten to grade 6), shops for vocational training, day care centre, learning centre for kids with special needs, outreach to migrant camps and impoverished communities, the “Mercy Ministry” (provides a soup kitchen, clothing, literacy training, outreach to jails), a medical center, macadamia nut orchard (with a processing and confection kitchen), drug & alcohol rehab centre, fire suppression and rescue services for the community, local TV station, Bible Institute, and interdenominational Mission Church.
• Even with all these services, FFHM still chooses to invest 50% of its budget on services for children.
• I dry my laundry on an outdoor clothesline every Saturday (my fellow Canadians will appreciate that…)
• Now a faith-based operation, the property FFHM is built on was originally used as a brothel and a casino.  Go figure.
• About 2,500 macadamia nut trees were hand-planted here, which will be producing 32,000 lbs of nuts when they reach maturity next year in 2012.   These nuts are processed and then used for baking, macadamia nut butter (it’s even better than peanut butter!), or are seasoned.  Just a few of the flavours of the macadamia nuts here are: chocolate-covered, salsa, chilli lime, macadamia roca, barbeque, honey nut, and toffee brittle.  

Weeks Three & Four: Just Your Average Day in the Desert

Time flies.  A month has passed since I first arrived, eyes widened, to Vicente Guerrero  - and since then, I've started to learn "Spanglish," I've made a handful of wonderful friends, and I've even begun to fall into a daily routine here (which I thought I'd share with you):

06:20 – Accompany the bus driver to pick up all the kids for the day (if it’s my turn).  We have two wheelchair-accessible buses, since more than half of the kids use wheelchairs or walkers.

06:45 – Pick up breakfast from the main kitchen (usually rice porridge) and eat back home over a good book.

08:00 – Devotions with all staff & visitors (unless it’s Tuesday or Thursday when I report straight to work).  Various departments of the mission take turns each day of the week to host the worship at the start of the service, followed by a speaker (usually a staff member, either a current or returning one).

09:00 – Bring the kids over to the learning centre to feed them breakfast, brush their teeth, and bathe them (not all of the kids have running water, so this may be their only opportunity to be bathed).  If there’s time, we also give them puzzles for cognitive development.

10:00 – “Circle time”:  we bring all 20 kids together for singing, reciting Bible verses, prayers, and a Bible story.  (Aside from “circle time,” the kids are divided into three different groups, mainly according to ability, in order for us as staff to best teach them and respond to their unique needs).

11:00 – Snack time: sometimes we have oranges for the kids to snack on, fresh off the vine!

11:30 – We assist the kids in working on fine motor skills, agility, learning numbers, and sign language (some of the kids can’t verbally communicate); make crafts; go on bike rides around the mission site, etc.

12:45 – Bring the kids over to the cafeteria for lunch at 13:00.  We often have corn tortillas, rice, beans, & salsa.

13:15 – Clean up the cafeteria, take the kids outdoors for sports, to play with dolls, and go biking (and get plenty of exercise chasing after the shenanigan-causers of the bunch).  In Baja California, it’s about 10-20°C during the winter (we experience cooler temperatures than mainland Mexico), so outdoor play is just about always feasible.

14:00 – Free time:  usually we still try to work on the kids’ coordination and fine motor skills, like playing with Lego or play-dough.

15:00 – Start cleaning up and loading the kids up on the buses … it’s a fairly long process to load and secure all the wheelchairs, so we leave ample time for this procedure!

15:30 – Accompany the bus driver to deliver all the kids home (if it’s my turn), which takes about an hour and a half.  If not, we clean up the learning centre, debrief, and plan out activities for the next day.

16:45 – Time to pick up supper, which my roommates occasionally eat together back at our place.  We often have soup, or beans & rice, and sometimes some other kind of pasta.

18:00-20:00 – If it’s Wednesday or Sunday, we have church.  If not, it's time to chill!

Rest of the evening – Being here is wonderfully conducive to relaxing—mostly because work is exhausting!—so most of my evenings are spent vegetating with friends from the mission or catching up on non-academic reading (I’ve been swapping books with other staff members on a regular basis).  Even with the good-natured teasing by my friends here, I acquire a few decades in age every Thursday when I play Scrabble and drink tea with three middle-aged/senior women.  I also try to accompany the outreach team on trips to the migrant camps each week, as well as visit the kids living at the on-site nursery during my weekday evenings.

Weekends are also all about recovery.  My friends and I make frequent trips into town—either for groceries, to go for ten-peso ice cream, or to take some of the kids from the orphanage to the park.  To me, nothing could surpass starting off a Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and a stellar book in my sunny backyard, or an afternoon spent listening to music and journaling in the prayer garden.  I’m always partial to walking or biking around the orchard on beautiful, blue-sky days, or going for coffee in the evenings to my favourite Vicente Guerrero coffee shop called Mi Kazza.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time here, it’s that being so wrapped up in emotionally-exhausting, physically-demanding, and heart-breaking work demands self-care and relaxation.  So ... carpe diem! 

Week Two: Facing Fear

“Fear defeats more people than any other one thing in the world.”  (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

“Feel the fear, then let it go.  Jump in and do it – whatever it is.  If our instincts and path have led us there, it is where we’re meant to be.”  (Melody Beattie)

“Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood.”  (Marie Curie)

The afternoon before I flew to Mexico, my best friend called from Ghana, where she was working on a volunteer project with her husband.  She had asked how I was feeling about the journey looming before me, and my response was: “fearful.”  Fearful of my complex route down to Mexico; fearful of the pervasive violence and corruption and disconcerting travel advisories for Mexico; fearful of all the unknowns.  I can’t remember her exact words, but the crux of her message came to be my mantra of this pilgrimage: to live a life in fear is to a live a life without faith. 

I deeply respect the people I work with and serve here.  Their lives are devoid of fear and bursting with faith, even in circumstances that seem to offer no hope at all.  Employment opportunities are severely limited here, rendering many people jobless and without any guarantee of securing basic amenities.  The kids I care for and teach during the week have no assurance as to whether or not they’ll be returning to a safe home or be given a hot supper at the end of the day.  The agency itself, FFHM, teeters on a tight budget, leaving the staff in charge of the various departments to operate just from day-to-day.  All the lives around me could be consumed by fear—that a job won’t come through, that it’ll be another night of hunger, that certain services will become incapacitated … But instead of choosing fearfulness, they choose to have faith that the unknown will become known; that needs will be met; that their prayers will be answered.

Inspired by the incredible attitudes of people who have virtually nothing, I see that most of my own fears are trivial or unnecessary.  In looking back on all I've feared in my life, everything has worked out.  And for those patches of my life that still need to be worked out—they will.  It just takes faith.  I ask myself this, and you as well: What really do we have to fear?

Week One: Gym Socks, Cement Blocks, & Culture Shock

There is a wooden plaque that hangs above one of the doorways at Cristo Por Su Mundo (Foundation For His Ministry), which reads: You will never be the same.  I pass under that plaque several times each day, but it wasn’t until the end of this past week—my first week—that I began realizing its accuracy.  Allow me to share a few stories, then, that begin to encapsulate my experiences and the ways they have changed me this past week.

Having done my share of travel, I was not anticipating to experience such a degree of culture shock—politically, geographically, and culturally—here in Mexico.  It was unnerving to be met by gruff men in military uniforms with guns at the border crossing and various checkpoints along the precarious and winding dirt roads.  I also found myself bewildered by the degree of destitution reflected in the dilapidated buildings I passed by along the way.  But I was also mesmerized by the craggy mountains that seemed to never end, the fields of cacti, the boundless ocean that coalesced into the sky.  It’s been a refreshing challenge having to learn a new language, use a new currency, and embrace the chaotic roadways (driver’s licenses are apparently treated more so as optional).

But perhaps the adjustment I’ll be struggling with the most is being surrounded by poverty.  After spending an afternoon visiting the drug and alcohol rehabilitation centre that FFHM helps to fund, our group was driving home and about to make the turnoff back home when we noticed a man, covered in mud, walking along the side of the road without shoes or adequate clothing to keep him warm.  (Note: Baja California experiences a climate that is significantly colder than the rest of Mexico—even as a ‘tough’ Canadian supposedly seasoned for the cold, I still wear four or five layers to bed at night!)  It was one of those moments we are constantly faced with: the choice to turn our backs and walk away, or to attempt to ameliorate a bit of suffering in a person’s life.  I’m not sure where this man will be sleeping tonight or what he’ll be eating tomorrow, but I do know he’s at least wearing a jacket and a pair of shoes that were kicking around in our van.  And my pair of gym socks that I had been wearing that day.

Toward the end of the week, I accompanied a group of volunteers out to a migrant camp north of Vicente Guerrero.  FFHM sends out a team several times a week to serve the people in these camps, who travel around Mexico to find work that, in most cases, barely generates enough income to support their families.  When we visit these camps, our focus is primarily the children.  These kids are often neglected during the day—not necessarily by choice of the parents—and are devoid of affection.  As soon as I stepped out of the van, children in ragged clothing were already swarming around me to receive a hug.  One little girl in a red sweater, named Lupita, was looking up at me with the most beautiful brown eyes, and had her arms desperately stretching up towards me so I would pick her up.  She clung to me all evening, and refused to let me put her down except when she reluctantly allowed me to give the other children a chance to be held.

It’s amazing to think that, even when you feel you have nothing to give—no presents, no provisions, not even the ability to communicate through language—you always have the gift of love.  It came to me as I was sitting on a cement block with Lupita resting on my lap, as we watched a movie in Spanish that was projected onto the side of our white van.  I remember looking over at a shivering boy nearby me, who had his threadbare t-shirt pulled over his knees to keep warm.  With Lupita still on my lap, I covered him with my jacket and wrapped my free arm around him to keep him warm. I had nothing to give him, but love.  This is what has impacted me the most this week; the way I have most changed.  I came here to work hard and make a difference in big ways, only to realize that the most I can do here is also the least—to love the people I serve.  And having learned that, I never will be the same.