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.
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.
Katie, wow. This is a sobering letter to us all. You and everyone there will be in my prayers. They are lucky to have such a loving person among them.
ReplyDeleteTake care (and I mean it)
With love,
Nicole